


Littoral

by LaviniaLavender, whereupon



Series: Freak Camp: A Monster By Any Other Name [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Injury, Drugs, Freak Camp 'verse, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Medication, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-26 21:05:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 55,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaviniaLavender/pseuds/LaviniaLavender, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereupon/pseuds/whereupon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam goes down bleeding in a field. This is the aftermath. (Freak Camp 'verse timestamp, written entirely by whereupon, set shortly after they begin hunting; about four months after Dean took Sam out of Freak Camp.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: LaviniaLavender is NOT THE AUTHOR OF THIS STORY. It is entirely whereupon's creation, I just encouraged it along the best I could. It's being posted by me to keep it under the FC series, because apparently you can't post it to someone else's series. Whereupon gave me permission to post it here.
> 
> My notes: The events in _Littoral_ may not actually take place at any particular point in the 'original' chaptered story, but I still view them as absolutely true and important, to tell. You can view it as a different version of a scene in the last chapter, Chapter 21; we didn't have the space or time to give a realistic portrayal of Sam's first time on pain meds, so I am infinitely grateful to whereupon for writing and posting Littoral. Even as a timestamp, it is accurate and real, far more so than I could have ever written myself.
> 
> In fact, I actually view our version in the chapter as overly simplistic to a fault, and it would make me squirm if _Littoral_ weren't available to you all as well. Now if anyone were to read that chapter and say, 'But wouldn't Sam have a much more interesting experience the first time he takes painkillers?' I can say, 'Yes, he would!' and point to _Littoral_.
> 
> whereupon's notes:  
>    
> Many thanks to brosedshield and lavinialavender for allowing me to write this for their 'verse. This one was started -- last fall, I think, and is still being written, and it remains, as ever and always, a love letter.

It had hurt, he remembers. It had hurt so much that it had threatened to take him under, the world going smudged and fog-billowing at the edges when he moved too quickly, but he had tried very hard not to let it; there had been so many worse kinds of hurt before and he had lived through all of them. It had hurt, but it no longer does, and he lets that thought work through his mind, unencumbered and directionless. It doesn't even hurt to remember it, the way his skin had torn and for a fraction of a second, his arm had remained bloodless; he'd thought for an instant _maybe that's the kind of monster I am_ , long-latent ability manifesting at last, and then Dean was kneeling beside him, hands streaked with blood. _Sam's_ blood, Sam had realized after trying to sit up, panic an instinctive reaction to the heartsick fear that Dean was hurt, and the pain sank in easy as breathing, a flare, an anchor, at once incandescent and earthbound as snickersnack teeth buried deep in his bones, and his stomach heaved and Dean was saying _SamSamSammy_ like he didn't know he was doing it, his shirt whole and clean.

"Monster," Sam had said, and then caught his breath. Gritted his teeth and managed, because he had had so much worse, because he would not let Dean get hurt, because he would not let Dean get hurt as a result of being distracted by _Sam_ , he would not betray Dean, "Where is it?"

Dean had blinked at that as though flash-blinded, stunned; he'd stopped saying Sam's name and said instead, " _Dead_. Fuck, Sammy, stay still, okay? This isn't bad. It's not."

_I know_ , Sam had said, or tried to say, but the sunlight had been waning, the field around him rinsed with red, and his tongue had been leaden, impossible to move behind the barricades of his teeth. And then he'd been on his feet, Dean's arms around him, Dean saying his name again and the world lurching with every step, and he remembers too the Impala, Dean lowering him against the sun-hot metal, letting him slump back against the tire, the wheel-well splattered with mud, while Dean rattled through the contents of the trunk and swore, fierce and brutal words that slid beneath Sam's skin and made him wrench closed his eyes, even though he didn't think they were directed at him. Sometime later, Dean had crouched beside him, dropped three pills into his palm, where they rested like seeds, a test, and unnecessary; Sam had shaken his head. He would be fine, as soon as he caught his balance -- sooner, if he had to, if Dean wanted it -- but Dean had closed his hand around Sam's, lifted them to Sam's mouth, said _please, Sammy_ like he was struggling to breathe, hands around his throat or a boot on his chest.

And then -- this. Whatever this is. It should worry him, he thinks, that he doesn't know what it is, where he is, what's expected of him, so he opens his eyes to the perfect sky that is the roof of the Impala, daylight still visible in the corners of his eyes, glinting an endless, miraculous blue. What happened to sunset?

He turns his head, sees that Dean is in the front seat, Dean is driving. Dean is all right, then, doing the thing that makes him the happiest, and Sam smiles. Blinks, recalling the panicked hitch of Dean's breath, the way he'd spoken Sam's name like it would save him. "It doesn't hurt anymore," he says carefully, as carefully as he can, the words light as ash on his tongue, though they leave no taste behind, not even smoke. Dean will be glad to know that. Dean worries about that kind of thing, more than he should; Sam has had so much worse than Dean can imagine. Than he hopes Dean can imagine. And it wouldn't matter, anyway; Sam would endure anything that Dean asked of him. Anything, for Dean.

"Yeah, that's the idea," Dean says. He looks back over the black leather between them, but only for a second, flash of green and sunlight that Sam wishes would go on forever, and he sounds relieved, though not as much as Sam had expected, not as much as Sam had let himself hope. "Kinda the point of painkillers, Sammy. Try not to move too much, okay? I think I stopped most of the bleeding, but the shirt's tied on there real loose."

None of his words make sense until Sam looks down at his arm, sees something that he recognizes as the shredded fabric of Dean's overshirt tied around it, dull plaid now streaked with the dirty red of monster blood. He is for a moment regretful that he wasn't paying attention when Dean did it, that he missed Dean's hands touching him quick and steady and impossibly gentle, and then he remembers what it means that Dean has done this for him, what it will cost. "Your shirt," he says. "Your shirt's gonna be ruined, Dean, you shouldn't have--" And he catches himself, because who is he to tell Dean what he should or shouldn't do? Dean's a real. Dean's _his_ real, and that's another dangerous thought, because Sam is a _monster_ , not capable of owning anyone, much less Dean.

He drags in a breath, but it's not as shaky as he'd thought it would be, and he thinks that will make Dean happy. Dean gets upset when he thinks Sam is afraid, or hurt, or sad. "I think," Sam begins. "I think I'm under the influence of the painkillers." He'd meant it as a confession, a warning to Dean; Dean should know that Sam's faculties have been impaired, that his monster is not at full capacity, even though Sam will do his best to prove otherwise, but it comes out wonderingly, and he did not mean for that to happen.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean says, and glances over the seat again. This time, he smiles at Sam, though it looks like it hurts him to do so, to even look at Sam, and that does hurt, makes something prickle at the back of Sam's throat. "It's okay, you're gonna be fine."

Sam shakes his head, as much as he can with his whole body resting flat on the wide seat, one of the safest places he's ever been. He has to make Dean understand; it's important. "I'm already fine," he says. "Dean, I'm fine, I'm better than fine, I p-promise."

"No, you're _high_ ," Dean says. This time, he doesn't look back, like he isn't talking to Sam at all. " _Fine_ woulda been if I'd taken the goddamn shot the first time, if I'd been paying fucking _attention_."

"I'm sorry," Sam says, speaks without thinking, because Dean is upset, and Dean should never be upset. He speaks automatically, and then pauses, waits for the fear he associates with the words to manifest, because sometimes Dean gets upset, too, when Sam says them. It doesn't happen, is nothing more than a vague sense of panic irrelevant as clouds in the distance and where they came from before they drifted over the camp, where they were going.

"You got nothing to apologize for," Dean says. "Absolutely fuckin' nothing, Sammy, you hear me? We'll be back at the motel soon and I'll get you patched up, good as new, you're gonna be okay." He's rambling again, his words coming fast, the way they do when he's scared, but there's nothing to be afraid of. Sam's already okay. Dean made him better. The air itself is prismatic, infinitely reflecting in the sunlight, as Sam makes to climb over the seat of Dean's car, mindful of Dean's shirt tied around his arm; he will not let it slip, will not let Dean's ruined shirt go to waste. "What the hell, Sam, you're gonna get hurt," Dean says, adds, "worse," but Sam's already up and over, easing against the leather. Whenever he's scared, it's better when he can see Dean, better when Dean touches him, a hand on his back or his shoulder, or when Dean lets him curl up against his chest, hide his monster-face from everyone else. Maybe it will be the same for Dean, too.

"It's been worse," Sam says. "The last time the guards thought we were conspiring against them, and the time before that. And before that. And." Every time before that, every time before Dean got him out, but he can't say that right now, because Dean still looks upset. Worried. Angry, like Sam's words aren't helping him at all. "It's okay, Dean." Sam lets himself touch Dean's shoulder, the cotton of his t-shirt feeling _grey_ against Sam's palm, the curve of muscle edging out from beneath it so familiar from all of the nights Dean has let him share his bed. When Dean sighs, Sam feels it through the pads of his fingers, feels it echo throughout his body, and he is suddenly very, very tired. He closes his eyes, and lets himself lean against Dean, warmed by the glow of the coin-gold sun through the windshield and the proximity of Dean's body to his own.

\--

Sam slumps against him, eyes closed, like he trusts Dean absolutely to take care of him, to make this better, like he's not at all pissed off at Dean for letting it happen to him, for letting him get hurt. And he _isn't_ , Dean knows, because Sam never, ever gets mad at him, not about anything, but he _should_ be. Dean fucked up, and Sam's the one who got hurt because of it. It isn't fair, but the universe has never once been fair, not in either of their lives.

But Sam is sleeping, now, or something close to it, and Dean lets himself take one hand off of the wheel to brush the hair from Sam's forehead, where it's caught tangled and sticky in a smear of blood. _Sam's_ blood, spilled so fucking easily by the bitch-wolf's teeth, and Dean's going to have nightmares about that for years, maybe, about the sound of Sam falling to his knees and then further, so fucking quietly, about the look on his face like this was what he expected, like he didn't mind it at all. Like he thought Dean had gotten him out only so that he could die of blood loss in some stupid field full of goddamn _pansies_ or whatever because Dean's such a lameass hunter that he let the thing they were hunting get too close.

Sam should have more faith in him than that. Sam _should_ , because Dean would have gladly gotten there first, taken the teeth in his own arm, let the bitch try to tear his whole goddamn arm _off_ , but maybe Sam's right not to, because, well, look what happened. He didn't get there first, he didn't even notice until he heard the snarl, and by then Sam, the fiercest and bravest person Dean has ever known in this as in everything else, had already _tackled_ the fucking thing; after that, Dean barely got there in _time_. Two shots into her neck, one into her head for good measure, and he was already pulling her off of Sam, even before she'd had time to collapse. For a moment, he thought he _had_ been too late, was already considering emptying the rest of the magazine into his own damned heart so he could bleed out next to Sam no faster than he deserved, and then Sam had opened his eyes and he'd still been breathing and he'd looked at Dean like he didn't remember what he was doing there, why he was lying on the ground with blood seeping through his shirt and his face the color of the bone-shard moon.

It didn't occur to Dean until later, until after Sam had mercifully passed out and Dean had managed to get him into the back seat (and the kid _still_ weighed hardly anything, anything at all in Dean's arms), that Sam had been on his other side, before. That in order for Sam to have tackled the wolf before Dean even turned around, he would have had to move, almost faster than Dean could have imagined, to put himself between it and Dean.

At that, Dean had wanted to be sick, because he hadn't asked that of Sam. He wouldn't ask that of _anybody_ , much less Sam, and Sam could have _died_ , just because he -- what? Thought he had to have Dean's back, and apparently decided that going mano-a-mano was better than using the silver-loaded nine-millimeter Dean had given him?

_Fuck_. "What the fuck, Sam," he'd said, quietly, and only because he knew Sam wouldn't hear him. And then he'd closed the door and gotten into the driver's seat and driven like _hell_ , because Sammy was maybe bleeding out in the backseat and it was all Dean's fault, but that didn't matter so much right now because of the first thing, the thing about Sammy bleeding.

But the motel looms up large through the windshield now, the second-best piece of news Dean's seen all day, and he turns the wheel left, hard but not hard enough to disturb Sam; the driver behind him honks and maybe he didn't have his turn signal on, but what the _hell_ , he's got more important things than traffic niceties on his mind, and the driver was following way too close anyway, and who the fuck drives a Volkswagen these days, Woodstock's been over for _decades_ , it's not an excuse.

The slot in front of their room is still vacant, as is most of the rest of the lot, and there's nobody smoking outside, nobody who might notice Dean helping a half-starved teenager with blood all over his shirt into the motel and maybe get some idea about calling the cops (because that's just what neither of them needs, Sam waking up shocky and scared just as the cops are banging on the door and Dean's shoving his ID in their faces and telling them to fuck off; Sam might well have a fucking heart attack then and there), so Dean makes himself park carefully, gently enough not to wake Sam any earlier than he has to.

When he cuts the engine and opens the door, pulling away from Sam only out of necessity, Sammy makes a small, sad noise and turns away, resting his face against the leather. His hair's in his eyes again and he's not making himself as small as possible; he looks like he's actually at peace, no matter the goddamn arm injury, and Dean swallows hard. "Hey, Sammy," he says, and makes himself reach out, makes himself touch Sam's uninjured shoulder, because he has to try. "Time to wake up, okay?"

For a second, Sam doesn't move, and Dean thinks he might have to carry him into the motel, after all, and that might not be so bad; he'll get Sam fixed up before Sam wakes up, before Sam can hurt again. And then Sam opens his eyes, and looks at him, and smiles, this sweet, stoned, _genuine_ fucking smile, wider than Dean's ever seen him smile before, like he can't imagine anything better than opening his eyes to find Dean looking back at him, and Jesus, if that doesn't just fucking break Dean's heart right there. "Dean," Sam says, and stretches a little, and still doesn't move to get up.

"Yeah, it's me," Dean says. "Let's get you inside, huh? You think you can walk?"

"Yeah," Sam says, but all the same, like there was ever any question about it, Dean helps him out of the car, eases him to his feet and keeps an arm around him, as tight as he can without hurting him more. Sam smiles up at Dean again, his head resting against Dean's chest, and Dean tries to make his own smile as normal as possible, like there's absolutely nothing wrong. Nothing at all. He reaches back with his free hand to close the door, realizes right after the frame swings out of his hand that maybe that was a _bad idea_ , loud noises aren't exactly Sam's thing on the _best_ of days, but when the door slams closed, Sam doesn't even flinch, and Dean would feel it if he had, the way he's got Sam pressed as close as possible to his side. It's a fucking major miracle, even if it's pharmaceutical in origin, and, damn, he wishes Sam could be this, this _okay_ , otherwise.

But that's not a helpful thought, now, so he concentrates on steering them towards the motel room, unlocking the door while still holding Sammy up, keeping Sammy close. Not that Sam's making any move to go anywhere else, to pull away in the least, mass of warmth and gangly limbs that he's actually, he's actually trying to wrap around _Dean_ , like he's forgotten about his arm and thinks this is a hug, and it'll be a miracle if Dean makes it through the rest of the day with his heart still functioning, the number of times it's gonna be busted and put back together.

The lock clicks and Dean repockets the key, reaches for the handle, and, God, Sam's still beaming up at him, eyes half-lidded and this smile that Dean's never going to forget, is going to work to making _real_ every fucking day for the rest of his life.

\--

Dean had asked if he could walk, and Sam had meant it when he'd said _yes_ ; he would never, ever lie to Dean. He _can_ walk, it's just that his feet keep getting tangled together and he's not entirely certain where Dean wants him to go, so he's once more infinitely grateful for Dean's kindness, for the way Dean wraps an arm around him and holds him close, guiding him gently the way monsters do not ever deserve to be guided, with anything more than a leash and a collar. But Dean cut off Sam's collar the day he got him out of camp, and he's been redefining what Sam understands of kindness ever since, changing the old rules with ease, a task that Sam imagines for anyone else would be as strange and impossible as altering gravity, and asking from Sam nothing in return except to be brave.

The door to the motel room Dean is sharing with him swings open, and Dean eases them both across the threshold, careful to help Sam step over the saltline, thin crystalline border at the edge of his vision, glinting dully in the yellowed light that filters in through the half-open curtains. Sam lets himself cling more tightly to Dean, against the thought of separation; Dean will probably want him to go to sleep, and he _could_ sleep, especially if it's what Dean wants him to do, but Dean doesn't look tired at all, and Sam will miss him. Dean looks the way he always does when Sam lets himself get hurt, or when Sam makes him sad; sometimes when he looks like this, he goes away and doesn't come back for hours. Sam hopes that he won't wake up until Dean gets back, this time. He knows that Dean probably won't want to sleep next to him, that he's lucky Dean's even _this_ close to him, with the mess Sam's made of his body and the shirt Dean gave him, but it would be nice to wake up and be able to see Dean somewhere close by.

Dean stops them between the two beds, linens still somewhat neat from this morning; he'd wanted to make them even neater, to clean up the room so that it would look nicer for Dean and because a real shouldn't have to clean up after a monster, even if Dean's paying the real to do it. But Dean had told him once more that it would be okay, that nobody would mind or even _know_ , and had hugged him and smiled at him and said, how about some breakfast, huh? But the room is starting to spin, a fever whirl ever so slightly, and the thought of breakfast doesn't help; Sam buries his face into Dean's shirt against the edge of nausea the sensation brings. He doesn't want to be sick in Dean's room, especially not after he's managed to make it this far; Dean would be so disappointed in him. Maybe he should be happy that Dean will leave, that Dean won't be here to watch him; maybe he should be grateful for that, and the fact that he isn't means that he's nothing more than a selfish, greedy monster, just like he's always known.

After a second, Dean's other arm wraps around him, too, encircling him, grounding. "Hey, Sammy, I know you're not feeling so hot, but we gotta get you lying down, okay? That'll make it better, I promise." He's speaking quietly, just above a whisper, into Sam's ear, and his breath on the blood-sticky desert of Sam's skin makes him shiver. "C'mon, I'll help you. Easy, dude. You just breathe, okay? I'll take care a' the hard parts," and Sam feels Dean moving him, half-carrying him, _lifting_ him, and then the pillow is cool at the back of his neck and Dean is pulling away, easing out of Sam's grasp, leaving Sam cold and alone, and there's something wrong with his arm again, like it's freezing and burning at the same time, and it's making him dizzy and he can't _think_.

"Don't go," he manages, and blinks, because the words are familiar in a way that they shouldn't be. He's a monster, and just because Dean is so kind, better than Sam could _ever_ deserve, doesn't mean that Sam has the right to make demands of him, now or ever before.

Dean's forehead creases in the way that means Sam's said something he shouldn't have, but he smiles at Sam anyway, smiles like he just got kicked in the teeth and says in that same not-a-whisper, "I'm just going away for a second, Sammy. Just gotta get some stuff to take care of you," and Sam's eyes sting without warning, because he made it _this_ far, he was doing so well. _So_ well, and then he failed, got himself broken and useless, and Dean is still so good as to keep his promise. Dean even brought him back here, let him ride in the Impala one last time, rather than doing it out in the field with the other monster like Sam deserved.

He can hear Dean rummaging about in his duffel a few feet away, but he can't make himself lift his head; it's too fucking _heavy_ and the ceiling keeps shifting, wavering overhead like the ocean does, and the bed is shaking, and he doesn't think Dean would get mad, if he turned around and saw Sam watching, but he doesn't want to risk it, anyway, doesn't want the last thing he sees on Dean's face to be anger. Bad enough that it's going to be disappointment, and he hopes that Dean will do it quickly. But a gunshot will ruin the linens, and the mattress, too; it will probably lose Dean the security deposit he had to put down on the room, and Sam doesn't want that to happen, either, doesn't want Dean to remember him as the stupid monster who not only wasted his time and his money and his _kindness_ , but cost him even _more_ because it was stupid enough to get itself broken and selfish enough not to kill itself quietly, where it wouldn't bother anyone.

"S-sorry," he says, and he wants to say more, wants to tell Dean how good it's been to be with him, and how sorry he is that he couldn't have been better for him, and that he hopes the next monster Dean finds _will_ be better (even though he doesn't hope that at all, he wants to be the only monster Dean ever has, and he has to be the _worst_ kind of monster for even thinking that), but even that one word is thick and sticky, sour syrup in his mouth, and comes out so fucking close to a whimper that he half-hopes Dean won't have heard, that Dean won't turn around and make Sam see the look on his face, whatever it might be.

But Dean does, Dean hears, Dean _always_ hears, and suddenly he's leaning over Sam again, eyes dark as the old-growth forests they've driven through together, and when he reaches out, Sam does not flinch away. The painkillers, he thinks muzzily, or else his stupid body is responding to training correctly at last, but Dean's hand only comes to rest on Sam's cheek, blessedly cool, and when he swipes his thumb gently across the skin beneath Sam's eye and it comes away damp, Sam realizes that he's crying, and he cannot recall when he started, when these ugly monster tears started spilling out. He saw a tree hit by lightning, once, on the other side of the fence, and that's how his arm feels right now, splintered and wracked, but that's _nothing_ compared to the way Dean's looking at him, like it's the dead of winter and he's just spent an hour on his knees in Head Alley, and Dean shouldn't know what it is to feel like that, shouldn't ever have to have that look on his face, so pale and hollow. "Oh, _Sammy_ ," Dean says, in this gutshot voice that Sam's only ever heard him use a few times before. "C'mon, man, it's okay, I'm gonna take care of you, I promise, I'm gonna make it okay," and Sam can't tell if it's because his own eyes are wet that everything looks like it's shimmering, or if Dean looks like he's about to cry, too.

The mattress ripples a little as Dean sits down on it, his hand still on Sam's face, thumb moving back and forth like he's trying to wipe away Sam's tears. He's got something in his other hand, but Sam can't see what it is, can't tell whether it's a gun or something else, can't tell what it is Dean is going to use to end him. "This is just a, you're just having a bad reaction," Dean says in that same awful voice. "That's all this is, okay, Sammy? You're with me, right? I'm gonna give you something else that's gonna -- that's not gonna do this to you, it's gonna make you feel better, and then we can, we can take a look at that arm of yours, throw a band-aid on there, huh, what do you say?" Sam blinks again, because that doesn't make _any_ sense, isn't a turn of phrase Dean's used in this context before, and he wishes he'd been stronger, wishes he had been able to convince Dean that he hadn't needed any painkillers after all, because they're making it so he can't tell what's happening, can't tell what Dean means. He opens his mouth, though, because he thinks Dean asked him a question, and Dean makes this horrible rasping noise like something's being gouged out of his throat, torn out of his chest, and ducks his head a little so that Sam can't see his eyes anymore. "Shit, Sam, no, that was rhetorical. Don't try to answer, okay, just -- lie back, this might sting a little, but I swear it's gonna help." And then he moves his other hand, and it's not a weapon at all, it's the other medkit, the one he keeps in his bag, and Sam has no fucking idea what's going on, except that the room is still spinning and Dean's the only constant thing in it, Dean's hand on his face the only thing that _isn't_ moving now, and his arm is all the colors of sunset, scarlet and cinnabar and dullest grinding orange all the way down to the bone.

Dean takes his hand away from Sam's face, then, leaving only the faintest memory of heat, and Sam has to close his eyes, because without Dean's touch, the whole world might spin even more out of control and he'll be lost like this forever, or until Dean finishes whatever it is he needs the medkit for and takes care of him. It's hard to hear anything beyond his own heartbeat, the rush of blood in his ears, and he wonders how he'll know when Dean does it, if it will get very quiet or very dark or if he'll just stop knowing anything at all.

Dean touches his uninjured arm, then, fingers steady and sure, and Sam feels the cold sharp silver wire of a needle, and tenses in apprehension despite himself. He's read about euthanasia, what people do with their old or sick or sometimes just unwanted pets; is that what Dean's doing for him? It stings; Dean was telling the truth, as he always has to Sam, and then it doesn't anymore and his arm doesn't hurt anymore, either, but he can still feel Dean's fingers resting on his arm, and that has to mean that he's not dead yet. He opens his eyes, cautiously; he would like very much to see Dean one last time, if he can, to look at Dean until it happens. He doesn't know if he'll be allowed to take anything with him -- monsters aren't supposed to have anything worth taking, no one at the camp ever did -- but he thinks that if he is, he would like to take the memory of Dean, the knowledge that once there was someone who loved him even though he was a monster, and whom he loved back as much and as desperately as any monster ever could.

"Hey," Dean says, and his voice is something like normal, now, though Sam can hear the strain beneath it, eroding. Sam puts this strain on him all the time, and one day, it's going to break through, going to break _him_ , and the thought is terrifying, should be agonizing; at the moment, however, Sam is content to consider it and let it go. "That's better, right? Told you it'd help." He smiles at Sam; it's a small smile, like he's still hurt, catching his breath with a chest full of broken ribs, but it makes his eyes crinkle, and that means it's real, so Sam smiles back at him.

"I'm not dead," he says, and his voice sounds strange to his own ears. Not like his own at all, and he thinks that Dean must notice, because his smile fades a little and his eyes telegraph grief, right down into the marrow of Sam's soul. It's only for an instant, though; Sam could have imagined it, because it's not there after Dean turns his head to cough.

"Nah," Dean says, rough, when he's done, and was he coughing before, before the Impala and the field and everything else that blurs together, that Sam cannot remember? He clears his throat and continues. "You're gonna be fine. Just got a little tore up, is all, I'll put in some stitches while you're still, while you're still good, and you'll be good as new. Get something delivered if you're hungry, I'll, I'll read to you if you want, that book about the turtles you're so into, if you're not feeling up to it yourself, we'll take it easy. You'll be fine."

"You're blurry," Sam says, because it's true, and Dean coughs again, only this time it sounds brighter, it doesn't catch at Sam's chest like sorrow, rattle at his ribs like they're the bars of a cage from which his heart is trying to escape.

"Yeah, I bet I am," and he pats Sam's arm. "Don't go anywhere, Sammy, I just gotta get some stuff. To, uh, clean out your, where she bit you, you know, make sure it doesn't get infected, all that shit," and he's rambling again like he's scared, like he's trying to reassure Sam, like he thinks _Sam_ is scared, or should be, which doesn't make any sense. Dean _saved_ him, and Dean made the pain stop, and Dean is going to make him better; Dean's going to make everything okay. Sam bends the arm Dean was patting so that he can catch Dean's hand the way Dean always catches his, but Dean's hand is gone and all he feels is air, slipping easily between his fingers and escaping.

"It's okay," he says. "It's okay, Dean, it's all gonna be fine." It's weird how the words wrap around each other, tangling around his tongue; how they come out like he's half-asleep. Is he half-asleep? He's not sure. He doesn't think so. Usually when he falls asleep, it's with Dean wrapped around him, keeping him safe, reminding him that nothing bad can get to him and nothing bad can get to Dean, either -- even if Sam fails to protect him, there's always a gun or a knife under his pillow, and the knowledge that Dean will be able to protect himself, that Sam will not get him killed, lets Sam close his eyes; usually the room is dark, the curtains drawn so that it's just them, safe from the real world with its roaring semis and flashing neon lights, its railroad crossings and trains whose moans Sam hears long after midnight, instead of letting sunlight in to light up everything, make the shadows retreat further into the corners, catch like gold in the spiky parts of Dean's hair. He smiles at Dean's back, at the faded sun-splotched grey of his shirt, waiting for him to turn around so Sam can see his face again, the brilliant green of his eyes and the freckles across the bridge of his nose, so that he'll touch Sam's arm again, or maybe his face, maybe kiss Sam the way he does when he says that Sam's done something to make it the best day ever.

Dean has a lot of best days ever, Sam thinks, but he has a lot of bad days, too, days when he doesn't get enough sleep because of Sam, days when he hopes that someone will call him, but the phone never rings and when he smiles at Sam, it's strained and taut and friable and his eyes look like he should be bleeding, days when he hardly takes his sunglasses off until it gets dark again, even if it's been raining since they got up, so maybe that balances out in the end. It's not _right_ , though. Someone as good as Dean shouldn't ever have bad days, and certainly not because of the things Sam does, because of the countless ways Sam makes him sad.

"I'm gonna take off the shirt I tied, okay?" Dean says; he's leaning over Sam again, sitting next to him on the bed, and Sam's not sure how he managed to do that without his noticing. If Sam reached out, he could touch the worn-soft denim of Dean's jeans, could feel the muscle of Dean's leg below that, or he could press his knuckles to Dean's belt and not be afraid at all, because it is not the leather of his collar, because it is Dean. The thought is dizzying, and not as daring as he thinks it should be. All he has to do is lift his hand, but it's attached to the arm the other monster attacked, and it'll make Dean's work harder if he moves that. Dean is _already_ so good, taking care of Sam again like he's a real, offering to read to him even though Dean thinks turtles are fucking weird but it's cool that Sam likes them; Sam doesn't want to seem ungrateful. "Just gotta disinfect it, and that's gonna burn, but not for long, and if you zone out, you might not even feel it. Then I'll put the stitches in and we'll get you into a clean shirt, get your, uh, the stuff off your face, so you can take a nap or whatever, I dunno, watch some TV, there's gotta be something on that doesn't suck."

"'m not tired," Sam says, gazing up at him, so close that he can see the tiny scar like a sickle twisting up beneath Dean's hairline, and there are shadows the color of clover beneath his eyes, and his jaw is shadowed, too, as though with charcoal. He's the best, most beautiful thing Sam's ever seen, and Sam might never sleep again, might spend the rest of his life, given once more to him by Dean, _watching_ Dean, feeling Dean pressed up against his side, smiling at him whenever Dean looks his way. "I wanna watch you."

Dean's body freezes at that, but not in a bad way, Sam thinks, not like he's locking up; it's more like Dean's stunned, like Sam told him something that made him happy, that he didn't think could possibly be true but that he hoped was true all the same, and Sam knows exactly what that's like, because Dean makes him feel like that every day. But Dean only says, in a voice that Sam thinks is carefully even, deliberately so, "Let's see how you feel about that after we finish fixing you up, huh." Sam can't imagine ever changing his mind, and he wants to tell Dean that; it's terribly important that Dean understands what he means to him, but Dean's touching his arm again, the one he let get hurt, and that takes precedence.

"I'm sorry about your shirt," he says, remembering, and Dean looks at him quickly.

"Don't worry about it, man, it's just a shirt, right?" He's untying the fabric, now, and when his fingers move, his ring glints, flickering light. Sam watches it for a little while, entranced though he's not sure why, until Dean tosses the ruined shirt aside and produces a pair of scissors out of nowhere. The metal is cold against Sam's skin, but not unpleasantly so; he hardly notices it at all, once Dean begins. And then the sleeve of the shirt falls away, ruined, now, too, and Dean is looking at his arm and his expression has gone sad again, and Sam wants to look, too, wants to see what's wrong, what's making Dean upset and how he can make it better, but Dean stops him before he can, puts a hand on his cheek so that he does not turn his head. He _could_ turn his head if he wanted; Dean's hand is gentle, but Dean doesn't want him to, so he won't. "Sammy, the, uh, the gun I gave you, do you still got that?"

"Yeah," Sam says; it was a gift from Dean, it's one of Dean's own belongings and he was letting Sam use it, of course Sam didn't lose it. He'd have protected it with his life, if it'd come to that, if he hadn't thought that doing so would have made Dean even more upset. Dean values him even more than he values his weapons, and there are some days still when Sam cannot fathom that, when he cannot begin to understand _why_.

Dean scrubs a hand still streaked with blood across his face, though surely there's been time for him to wash it off, to wash his hands, get it off of his skin so it wouldn't make him itch when he returned to Sam's side. "Where is it?"

"Where you told me to put it." He can't tell whether Dean's angry or just confused, but whichever it is, he wants to make it better, wants to make Dean smile at him again. "Against the small of my back so that it won't blow my, so that I'll be safer."

Dean looks at him strangely, mouth pursed and forehead furrowed; Sam thinks he recognizes it as the look Dean gives him whenever Sam quotes him directly. He said once before that Sam didn't have to do that, didn't have to memorize everything he said; Dean said that he could just focus on the concept, but it isn't like Sam has a choice, and besides, he can't imagine for an instant wanting to forget what Dean tells him. "So you've been lying on it this whole time?"

"Yes?" Sam guesses. He thinks that's the right answer. It's the truth, anyway, and Dean likes it when he tells the truth, maybe even more than Dean likes pie and his beautiful black car with the chrome like lightning and _Led Zeppelin BBC Sessions_ all put together. It's a fundamental part of Dean, he thinks, _he's_ a fundamental part of Dean, just as Dean is and always has been of him, for as long as he can remember, and the thought is amazing, beyond belief, so unreal that he can't help but laugh a little, this small bright noise like a whimper turned on its head, which he thinks he manages to choke off before Dean hears.

"Jesus, Sammy," Dean says, but there's no force behind it; it's not an expletive but a voiced sigh. "Okay, I'm gonna, um, do you wanna sit up? You'll probably be more comfortable if you're not lying on a friggin' _gun_ this whole time." Sam's not sure how he could possibly be _more_ comfortable, here on this wide real's bed with Dean at his side and the way the air begins to shimmer faintly when he forgets to blink, but Dean seems intent on the idea of him moving, so he tries; he manages to lift his head up from the pillows, but for all that it feels like it's full of clouds, it proves to be heavier than stones, and that's when Dean leans in and braces a hand between his shoulderblades to help him up the rest of the way, his palm seeping slow heat through the fabric of Sam's shirt, through his bones, the broken cage of his chest, as though to mark Sam's heart, mark one of the few places the guards were never able to reach and make it so that no matter what, they never will.

\--

Jesus fucking Christ, Sam just _giggled_. Or fucking hiccuped, maybe, because it hardly lasted long at all, but Dean's pretty sure it was a giggle; it was way too goddamn happy to be a hiccup, which Dean happens to be way too goddamn familiar with from every time Sam's sobs reach that point in the middle of the night, and that's well nigh unto fucking miraculous right there. Sure, Dean knows they're good drugs, but _Sam_. Giggling. Sam, who some days still has trouble looking him in the _eye_ , who on his best days can manage a shaky half-smile for maybe five seconds at a time if nobody other than Dean is looking at him and who on his worst can't fucking _talk_ unless Dean asks him a direct yes-or-no question.

Sam just _giggled_ , and there are still tear-tracks drying on his face from that godawful soundless crying like it was killing him because Dean was taking too long to take care of him, to do his goddamn _job_ , and right now the juxtaposition of the two is making Dean want to drive his fucking fist into the wall, because at least a couple of busted bones would be something he knows how to deal with, but he's got his hand on Sam's back, vertebrae ridge and skinny planes beneath which he can too easily feel the outline of bones like wings bound and furled, and that's going to have to do for now. Sam's head droops forward like he can't hold it up any longer, comes to rest against Dean's chest, and he swallows, not at the weight but at the sleepy smile Sam gives him right before it happens, at the way Sam _lets_ it happen, lets Dean bear all of his weight without trying to hold himself back, trying to make himself smaller or more contained or just fucking _less_.

And then Sam fucking _nuzzles_ him, nuzzles him like he's trying to get comfortable and isn't planning on moving anytime soon once he does, and makes this contented noise that isn't muffled _nearly_ enough by Dean's chest, and he can still feel the remnants of the tears Sam had cried without even seeming to notice he was doing it, dampness soaking into his shirt now and Sam not minding, not feeling guilty about it, not choking out words which are very carefully not _I'm sorry_ , but which carry the same meaning. Sam's the only person who's ever had this effect on Dean, and the only person who ever will, the only person who can make Dean want to go out and get fucking wasted, start a brawl, come home red-knuckled and red-eyed with bruises down his ribs, while at the same time making him want to ease Sam down onto his bed and kiss all the fucking apology out of him, get his hands into Sam's jeans and watch his eyes flutter closed, see if he can make Sam forget for even just an instant every fucking abomination that has been done to him, every unspeakable act he's had to endure.

Five fucking minutes ago and Sam was looking like he half-expected Dean to put a bullet in him just to put him out of his misery and he was still _apologizing_ , and now he's better, calmer, _happier_ than Dean can ever remember seeing him, and if all it takes is a shot of fucking _drugs_ (the right ones, anyway, not the ones that fucked him up in the first -- _second_ place), Dean's going to seriously have to consider investing in a goddamn pharmaceutical company. Which is a fucked-up thought to even _have_ , especially when Sam's only leaning against him right now so that Dean can get the gun out from beneath him and then get to work stitching him up, so Dean needs to stop having it. He lets himself hold Sam tighter, draw him in closer, but only because he needs to, and reaches with his other hand to tug the gun out from where it's tucked against Sam's back, caught up in the blood-smudged damp fabric of his shirt, and tries at the same time _not_ to think about the fact that he's got a hand up under Sam's shirt, about the fact that he's touching the curve of Sam's spine, the hot skin of his back, about how Sam's forehead is cradled just below his clavicle, every one of Sam's exhalations threatening to make him shiver, make his body do something that he can't let it, now.

He grabs the gun, and how the hell was Sam _resting_ on it, why the hell didn't he mention it to Dean, but oh, Dean already knows the answer to that one, knows it so goddamn well, well as salt rubbed into a wound every fucking day until it heals, so that even the scar will ache; he puts the gun safely aside on the bedside table and says, "C'mon, Sammy, time to get horizontal again, dude," and isn't sure whether to be glad or wistful that Sam will no longer be so close.

"Comfortable," Sam says, hazily but sure; there's no fucking way Dean misheard him. What else even _sounds_ like "comfortable," anyway? Does Sam speak any other languages? Fuck, he doesn't _think_ so, but there's so goddamn much that he _doesn't_ know about Sam, about what happened to Sam during those long years before Dean pulled his shit together and actually began trying to keep the promise he'd made the kid.

"I know, but you're gonna be even more comfortable when you lie down, right," he tries, because God help him, if Sam doesn't want to move, Dean's not sure he'll have the heart to make him, and it's not that Dean so much minds for his own sake, but Sam really does need the goddamn stitches, like, _yesterday_ , even though he's not bleeding so badly anymore, not like he was, not like he might well bleed out with Dean's hands on him.

Sam pulls back enough to look at Dean and he feels a flash of guilt for still having his hand on him, still touching Sam's back, even though he's pretty sure Sam's out of it enough that he might not even be aware of that fact; Sam pulls back and looks at him, looks him in the _eyes_ , looks at him with these huge fucking _pleading_ eyes, and Dean doesn't think that's just the drugs. The huge part, maybe, but not the pleading, and his hair's fallen across his eyes and there's a crease down one cheek from a wrinkle in Dean's t-shirt and there goes Dean's rationale, there goes any hope of maintaining anything like the fucking necessary distance to be a goddamn _adult_ here, to make anything like a reasonable, responsible, un-Sam-biased decision for the rest of maybe his whole life. "You'll come, too?"

Oh, _Jesus_ , Sam. How the fuck's he meant to say _no_? No, Sammy, sorry, just 'cause you're stoned outta your goddamn mind enough to ask me for something without flinching doesn't mean you're gonna get it? No, Sam, there's no fucking way you meant that the way it sounded, so go to sleep while I fix your arm? Fuck, Dean's a coward, a selfish goddamn loser of a coward. "Gotta patch up your arm, here, first," he says, and manages a smile that he hopes will pass for certain, for reassuring, as if anything he ever does could be found reassuring by anyone. "After that, though, yeah, I promise."

"You promise," Sam repeats wonderingly, and, fuck, there's no way Dean's promise should mean that much to him, no way he should think the idea of Dean lying next to him is something worth that kind of happiness, like it's all he's ever wanted from life (and Dean's not going to think about how maybe it _is_ , even now, after everything Dean's tried to teach him, because if he does, he has the feeling he might spend the night curled around Sam, taking shots straight from the bottle in his duffel once Sam's passed out), but Dean'll take what he can get.

"Yeah, Sammy, lie back down, okay? I'll help you again, c'mon, we'll take it slow," and Sam nods, and lets Dean ease him back down onto the pillows, not looking away for a second. Dean feels himself start to blush, clears his throat and reaches for the rubbing alcohol. He hopes Sam won't feel this, hopes Sam will close his eyes and go to sleep and not feel a _second_ of this, because Dean cannot stand being the one who hurts him, cannot stand him hurting in the least, even if it's in his own best interest, what needs to happen for him to be healthy. Bad enough what Dean asks of him every day, asks and waits for him to do, even though it would be so fucking much easier to do it for him, shield him from the world, all the people who look at him strangely when he stutters, who roll their eyes when it takes him _maybe_ two fucking seconds longer than anybody else to get a word out; if only it wouldn't scare Sam more, Dean would have his gun pressed against the soft angle of their throats for what they do to him, minor devastation in the shadows under his eyes and the way Dean sometimes has to coax him to look up again, look at something other than the ground or his own white-knuckled hands.

But Sam needs to learn to be unafraid, to not take shit from anybody, and he needs these goddamn stitches in his arm, so Dean uncaps the bottle, dares to take a look back at Sam, who looks back at him with no less open adoration than he had a moment before, and no fear at all; Dean sees him for a moment as somebody else, a kid who grew up _as_ a kid, who didn't grow up behind the walls of goddamn motherfucking _Freak Camp_ with its fucking sadistic guards and _Campbells_ (Mom excluded, as ever, from that curse. It wasn't her fault that she was born with that name, into _that_ family). It's a miracle Sam got out with his heart intact, with his soul; there are still days when Dean wonders if he didn't, if maybe something beautiful and terribly important was left behind, shattered and ground into the sunburned desert dirt.

And then Dean looks down at the gash on Sam's arm, the torn flesh and the toothmarks, this new wound layered atop the others, scars upon a lifetime's worth of scars, and the fact that Sam can still look at him with such trust, such absolute _faith_ , even considering that he's doped up to his fucking _eyeballs_ , seems like the saddest thing in the whole damned world, and once more like a miracle, too. "Close your eyes, just for a sec," he says, because he doesn't want Sam to wince while looking at him, selfish as that might be; he doesn't want that goddamn fucking _heartbreaking_ look on Sam's face, all that contentment, to turn heartbreaking for an entirely different reason as he watches. It's not an order, though he knows Sam will probably take it as such, and he can feel guilty about that later.

It's been fucking _years_ since he's stitched up somebody he loves.

\--


	2. Chapter 2

He realizes belatedly that maybe he should have grabbed another goddamn towel, something to put beneath Sam's arm so the alcohol won't runnel off and get all over the rest of his shirt and make him cold, but no way's he going to put this off any longer, no way's he going to get up for even an instant, the way Sam's snugged all languid and warm and fucking _peaceful_ against his hip. He lets himself bite his lip, now, because Sammy's still got his eyes closed, so he doesn't have to worry about trying to look calm, trying to look like this is _nothing_ , and Jesus, it was never this hard when he had to stitch up Da-- _John_ ; he doesn't remember worrying about _any_ of this, and John would have told him to quit bitching and soldier up, if he had.

And then he pours the alcohol, sharp medicinal odor that's still far too familiar, and _fuck_ , that's gotta sting, that's gotta fucking _burn_ , and he blots at what he can, tries to clear away some of the blood that's smeared across Sam's skin, and this whole time, Sam hasn't even so much as flinched. "Sam," Dean says, quietly in case Sam has passed out; he doesn't need to wake up, if that's the case. At least not for this part. Dean can wake him up when it's done, tell himself some stupid lie about how he's just checking to make sure Sam's okay and it's not in the least because he just wants to see if Sam'll smile at him, so unreserved and unfettered, one last time. He won't even be able to justify it with the necessity of getting Sam into the clean bed; he can lift him easily, carry him gently, put him to bed and hope he doesn't wake sobbing and dream-lost a few hours later. Hope he gets through the night, this time, without that; Dean'd spend the whole fucking night sitting vigil and trying his damnedest not to drink, if he thought it'd help.

Sam _hasn't_ passed out, though, or if he has, his eyes open anyway as soon as Dean speaks his name, as though that's all it took to bring him back. For one dreadful second, less than that, one fucking dreadful _millisecond_ , Dean waits for the weariness to flood back in, the groundswell of agony like he's just remembered that the world is a place of full of people who'll torture kids and people who'll let it happen, the way it always does when Dean wakes him up in the morning or after he falls asleep so goddamn far away across the bench seat with his head against the window or dozes off when they're watching TV, only in sleep letting himself lean fully against Dean.

One fucking dreadful millisecond, and then Dean breathes easy, because it doesn't happen, and he can almost ignore the aftertaste of guilt for wanting to keep Sam like this, sour shame for being happy that he gets to, for now. Sam looks at him just the way he did before he closed his eyes, stoned and fucking _blissful_ , like the worst thing that's ever happened to him is, hell, striking out at a baseball game or whatever kids think is a tragedy, Dean doesn't know. Not getting a puppy for Christmas or something.

"How you holdin' up," Dean says, which is a stupid question considering that the kid's still got a hole in his arm where some fucking wolf with teeth like narrow serrated knives tried to use him as a chewtoy and Dean just poured _alcohol_ over it, but he has to say _something_ , give Sam something to focus on other than him. He swallows back the sudden desire to finger-comb Sam's hair back off of his forehead, out of his eyes, and wonders why the fuck Sam always brings that stupid girly shit out in him.

"I'm fine," Sam says drowsily, gazing up at Dean like he'd be fucking ecstatic to spend the rest of his life exactly like this. "It doesn't hurt at all, I swear. You're here." And Dean's going to try very hard not to think that Sam thinks that last part is an _explanation_ for the part that came before; maybe Sam's just making an observation, and then Sam's other hand hovers up, pats clumsily at Dean's right shoulder for a second before settling back down at his side, and he is still _smiling_ at Dean, doesn't look abashed in the least, doesn't look like he spent three minutes prior trying to determine whether he had enough courage to risk such an action and like he's waiting now to be punished, half-expecting, still, Dean to hit him for such audacity.

Dean smiles back, then, like it doesn't hurt to breathe, like the fact of his lungs, expanding desperate for air against the bones of his chest, doesn't feel exactly like grief for something that should have been, an unhappened past, a chance now lost; right now he would give anything -- his car, his life, his sense of taste -- for Sam to be able to do that every day, to live in the world with such ease, to take and touch and have whatever he wants, without hesitating or apologizing for it, to not think that even the smallest gesture of decency from Dean is something akin to benediction.

Dean blots at his arm one last time, tosses the towel down onto the floor, alongside the discarded shirt; he reaches for the floss and the needle and hopes to fucking God that the years and years of memories of sewing John back up, sewing _himself_ back up because he was clumsy or hungover or just too fucking slow, will let him do this on autopilot, let him do this without thinking about the fact that it's Sam he's putting back together, Sam who hasn't flinched at all, but that doesn't mean it's not hurting him.

Dean's seen the scars, the remnants of what's been inflicted upon him. Enough pain of a certain kind and anything less fails to register as noteworthy.

He half-expects Sam to hiss anyway, when the needle first pierces his skin; that the reaction will be automatic, despite the meds. He should have known better, of course, because Sam only looks up at him like he didn't even notice. And it shouldn't make him sad, that he isn't causing Sam what _Sam_ thinks of as pain, and he _is_ glad for that, though at the same time he hates the fact that this doesn't even register for Sam, that he does not wince or even widen his eyes as Dean pulls the floss through his skin. But it's only because of the drugs, he tells himself; without that, this would hurt like a steel-clawed _bitch_. He knows; the marks are written all over his own skin, though they look nothing at all like the memories on Sam's.

Without the drugs, Sam would hurt, would feel this even past the red neon firecracker slice in his arm. He would _not_ lie here silently, holding his breath if he thought he had to in order to keep from whimpering and distracting Dean, looking at him with his face carefully blank save for the agony in his eyes, believing entirely that Dean thought this was necessary and so enduring it for Dean's sake, and that is such an absolute fucking lie that even Dean can't make himself believe it. And it should be _Dean_ , being stitched up, if it has to be one of them; it shouldn't be Sammy.

"Hey, Sam, got a question for you," he says, because it really, really fucking should not be Sammy, and this needs to happen never again, he wants a fucking lifetime guarantee from the blind and stone-cold bitch that is the uncaring universe and if he can't have that, he can at least do whatever he can to eliminate the potential. Arm Sam to the teeth and put him in a padded bubble or something. "You don't gotta answer if you don't want to, but, uh. You know how we've been practicing with the guns, how you're such a fuckin' awesome shot?" and he lets himself look away from his work, then, just for a second, just to make sure Sam's still doing okay, make sure he's not going to that scary distant place the way he sometimes does when things get bad. Catches a flash of Sam's grin, and, great, how the fuck's he supposed to look away _now_ , but he does, he makes himself, effort greater and more painful than getting out of bed the hazy tequila-toned afternoon after drinking to blackout and dreams he can't recall, because he's not going to sit here in the middle of giving Sam fucking _medical care_ , not going to draw this out for him, just so he can stare at him like some teenage girl with a heartthrob photo taped to the inside of her locker, Jesus _Christ_.

"Yeah," Sam says, and he's patting Dean again, now, small stroking gestures on Dean's shoulder like Dean guesses somebody'd pet a cat or a baby or something; there's no force to it and Sam's hand hardly weighs a thing, but, God, Sam's _touching_ him again, of his own volition, not because he's scared out of his fucking mind and is clinging to Dean out of blind terror, Dean the only thing he trusts not to backhand him across the face, and maybe he doesn't even trust Dean that much, Dean doesn't want to know. "You said I'm the best fucking shot you ever saw, so much better than you were when your dad to--, when you were learning," and Jesus, Sam needs to stop memorizing everything Dean says like it's fucking Metallica lyrics or the litany against fear or whatever.

"Damn straight," Dean says. "My first time, I couldn't hit a can from three paces, kept hitting trees and shit instead." Which isn't exactly true, but it might have been from the look on John's face, and Dean's not going to think about the look on John's face _later_ , when he'd finally earned it, when he hit every fucking can on his first try, isn't going to think about how John clapped a warm hand to the back of his neck and told him he'd known Dean could do this well if he tried and he was so fucking proud of his son today, he did so good he could have a beer if he wanted, sit out next to his old man for awhile. "You're a natural, dude."

"I'm good at some stuff," Sam says, his hand falling away from Dean's shoulder again like he can't concentrate on more than one thing at a time, and he probably _can't_ , and that shouldn't make Dean want to kiss him even more, shouldn't make him want to kiss Sam because Sam won't be thinking about anything else, about whatever he -- whatever else he might associate with it, somebody making him do something he doesn't want to, treating his body like their own goddamn wall to graffiti, whatever fucking _memories_ it would bring up for him, the contents of which Dean cannot consider without black and murderous and molten behind his eyes. It _shouldn't_ , and even if it does, Dean's not going to act on it. No fucking way. He might be an asshole, but he's not enough of one to take advantage of a drugged kid who trusts him utterly. "And you make me better at it, Dean, you teach me things, you held my hands when I pulled the trigger and you told me about recoil so that I wouldn't be scared."

"Nah." Dean ties off the stitches, cuts the floss, and it's not an excuse to not have to look Sam in the eye, see himself as something he isn't, it's really not. Good timing's all. "I just, uh. That's my job, right? Take care of you? Yeah. Look, Sammy, I was just wondering, the, the gun I gave you, did it jam? When you pulled the trigger, what happened?" Because Sam wasn't even meant to have to _use_ the gun, Dean was meant to be paying attention, meant to see the wolf first, and, damn it, he can't believe he sent Sammy out there with a fucking gun that _jammed_. His guns don't jam. They fucking don't. They don't, but apparently they _do_ , and he's been cleaning guns his whole life, taking them apart and putting them back together again and making sure they can do their fucking _job_ \-- John always said that a hunter without a weapon's nothing but a civilian who knows exactly how fucked he is -- but, yeah, of course he failed just when Sam needed him not to. That's just so fucking perfect.

"I didn't," Sam says. Dean doesn't realize he's waiting for Sam to apologize out of habit until Sam _doesn't_ , and how fucked up is it that he already had _it's okay_ half-formed on his tongue? He blinks.

"Didn't what," he says instead, cuts himself off before he can add _kiddo_ , because where the hell did that even come from? He's got the vague idea that's something _uncles_ say, and he's not anybody's goddamn uncle.

Actually, it kind of sounds like something Bobby would say, and that's an even fucking _weirder_ thought. No way's he getting himself a trucker's cap. God, Sam fucks with his head. Not that he's complaining.

"Pull the trigger," Sam says, slowly; Dean's not sure whether that's entirely for his benefit. It might be. Sam's got more patience than anybody else he's ever met. "I didn't pull the trigger."

"Um." And sure, yeah, maybe Dean's not at his most eloquent ever, but seriously, what the hell did Sam do with the gun, then? Chuck at the wolf like a fucking ninja? And then manage to retrieve it, tuck it away again, in the maybe-all-of-twelve seconds it took Dean to get to him? Sam's got epic Batman skills, no doubt about that, and all the more considering that Batman's a ripped rich dude and Sam's a scrawny teenager with floppy hair, whose hugs still feel like the press of sticks, scarecrow arms pressed tight around Dean, but that's -- _oh_. "You didn't use the gun."

Sam shakes his head a little without lifting it from the pillow, looks like he's waiting for the room to stop moving, after. Yeah, Dean's been there. He lets himself rest his knuckles against the side of Sam's face, up against his cheekbone, in case that'll help, and tries not to pay attention to the way Sam relaxes into the touch, _leans_ into the touch, skin all soft and maybe a little feverish but not so much as to be dangerous, eyes like early October. "Forgot," Sam says. "I didn't have a gun in Freak Camp and I thought I'd get there in time and be able to break her neck, but then she jumped for you and I couldn't."

"You couldn't," Dean says, and he's not going to ask _couldn't what_ , because he knows what the answer would have been if it'd been Sam the wolf had leapt for and he is simultaneously afraid that Sam would speak those words aloud, tell Dean how willing he'd been to be torn apart in order to give Dean what might have only been a fucking _warning_ , and afraid that he would not, that he'd say something else entirely. "You didn't have a gun in Freak Camp?" He doesn't mean to inflect it like it's a question, not really, but it comes out like one anyway. And, hell, maybe he does want to know. Not the part about the gun, because, yeah, he _knows_ that, knows that Sammy wasn't given anything with which he might've defended himself, anything he could've used to give the snakefuckers even the smallest _part_ of what they deserved for touching him, starving him, making him shake with cold. But maybe Dean wants to know what it is that he sees in his nightmares, what it is that Sam will not tell him, what's so fucking awful that Sam can't make himself say it, usually. Maybe if Dean knew, he could make it better; he could at least _try_.

Jesus, he's a bastard to ask Sam now, when he fucking _knows_ that Sam's way too fucking out of it to think about what he might say, able now to say amazing goddamn miracles that Dean's got no idea what to do with, things like _I wanna watch you_ without looking like he'd been knifed in the ribs, to be able to say it without stuttering, without pausing, to be able to say it at _all_ , and Dean's _got_ him sewn up. He should get him into a clean t-shirt, into the clean bed, wipe the dried blood off his face and pull the blankets up around his chin and let him watch some documentary about planets or bees or raisin processing, that kinda shit, read to him about those goddamn creepy tortoises the size of Beetles, let him sleep this off.

Sleep it off, and wake up tomorrow scared and shy and hesitant, flinching when Dean forgets and moves too fast, unsmiling until maybe noon, if Dean's lucky, if he can come up with something bizarre or boneheaded enough by then, and even then it'll be that fucking _eclipsed_ smile, such a hollow victory now that Dean knows what it _should_ look like, what it could, a horizon all its own, and, fuck, how long has he been rubbing his thumb along the curve of Sam's cheek like this, and Sam is breathing like a fucking Zen master, all at one with the world and every goddamn beautiful thing in it, and Dean's the worst fucking person _in_ the world, almost, for wanting to keep Sam awake with him, wanting to see him smile again, wanting to hear the ridiculous unexpected perfection of his giggle one last time, and Sam is opening his mouth to speak, to _answer_ , and Dean is so very going to hell.

_Fuck_.

\--

Dean's hand on Sam's face, the light press of his knuckles and the way he's moving his thumb like the tide, quiet moondrawn back-and-forth slide, feels like what Sam understands, as best as he or any other monster possibly can, of the concept _holy_ , so overwhelmingly good that for a moment he forgets that Dean asked him a question. But Dean is infinitely patient, so much more than Sam deserves, and Sam doesn't need to feel afraid, doesn't need to worry that Dean will be angered by the delay. He _doesn't_ feel afraid, not in the least; he is the safest he has ever been, here, and the most content that he can ever recall being.

"Monsters aren't allowed guns," he says, because he thinks that's what Dean asked; Dean puts forth the strangest questions sometimes, says the strangest things. Sam might never be able to comprehend him, but he's marvelous all the same. "Except for me, 'cause I'm your monster." The motion of Dean's thumb pauses at that, stutters, but he's still sitting beside Sam, still touching him, hand cool against Sam's cheek, and that means that he's not mad, just surprised. As long as Dean is beside him, Sam will be all right, unable to be harmed by the rest of the world, a world whose existence seems tenuous anyway right now, lighter than air, or maybe that's just him, buoyed as always by his proximity to Dean and how brave that makes him, as though Dean's extending him the protection of his own confidence, his face turned sure and defiant to the wind and the cut of his crooked smile something Sam will carry with him forever, in the same place that he keeps the knowledge that he is Sam _Winchester_ , that even though he is a monster, Dean cares for him enough to let him share that name, dangerous and true as a spell-word, covenant intent.

"We weren't supposed to fight the guards, but sometimes they liked to make us fight each other, to see who'd win, see who was the better monster, the strongest. I always won, though, Dean, whenever they picked me, I didn't want to disappoint you. I didn't want you to come back and be sad, and I used to think sometimes that you'd know," and he pauses, then, cuts off the words that come as easily now as smiling, smiling up at Dean, smiling into his seafoamed eyes, because what he just said sounds dangerously close to claiming to be a psychic, and it might scare Dean, might make him want to go away and leave Sam on his own in this blurry, not-quite-here, not-quite-true place, place like he imagines dreams to be, the dreams he reads about, the ones that reals have, ones that never, ever involve the cruel artistry of knives or blood-tinged frost beneath his knees or scarred knuckles grinding against his scalp, fingers ripping at his hair. Dreams where nothing hurts, and they are loved, and Sam wishes so badly that he had been born a real, if this is how it feels; he does not wish it badly enough, though, that he'd give up being a monster who is allowed the grace of _Dean_.

"That I'd know," Dean says, eyebrows drawing together, and there's a smear of what must be Sam's own blood on his neck, though he doesn't seem to mind. In the half-light, he looks lamplit, candlelit, golden; his jawline glints like sandpaper. "Sammy, I don't--"

"If I died," Sam says, and chokes back an amazed bubble of laughter, nova in his chest, because he just interrupted a _real_ , even if it was Dean, Dean who never minds anything he does even when Sam can see that it makes him tired, who tells him every day that he's a goddamn genius, a genuine badass, somebody who makes Dean prouder with every fucking minute. "If I wasn't fast enough and one of the vampires bled me out, or if I got damaged and wasn't useful anymore, like if somebody stepped on my throat the way they did sometimes to the slower ones, and I had to be taken care of, I didn't want you to hate me for making you waste your time, so sometimes I'd pretend that you'd know, the way you know everything. I had to stop, we always have to stop, hoping only hurt worse, but it worked for a little while."

Dean doesn't say anything, doesn't react at all, but most importantly, he doesn't move to leave, goes right on sitting beside him, as close as possible, hip fitting against Sam's own, and it takes more effort than it should, for Sam to move, but determination has never failed him before; he's made himself do so many unwanted things in the past, and he _wants_ to do this, wants it more in this instant than he can recall wanting anything. At this moment, he can _do_ anything, and so he manages to lift his arm again, dream-fogged as it is, weighted down by some inexplicable gravitational pull. Dean's shoulder seems impossibly distant, though Sam wants very much to grab a fistful of his shirt, feel Dean's heart beating against his wrist, the way he does when they're sleeping so close together; he clutches instead for Dean's hand, the one Dean is so kind as to rest against him, sweet as sunlight, and closes his own fingers around Dean's, feels the notches of Dean's knuckles, the smooth surfaces and flat blunt edges of his nails. He thinks his own hands might be bigger than Dean's, which is a weird thought, even though they're still skinny, monster-thin.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean says quietly, then, like part of a different conversation, in that same voice that he uses when Sam wakes in the middle of the night and cannot contain himself, cannot control his breathing or his tears or his stupid monster self, and Dean holds him and swears never to let go, not until Sam wants him to.

Sam tightens his grip on Dean's hand, the way Dean does for him those nights, like he's trying to show Sam how tightly he'd hold on if the ASC came for Sam, even though Sam knows that wouldn't work, won't work, and he'd have better luck with bullets. "It's okay, I'm not sad, Dean, I promise, you don't have to be nice to me. You're already so nice to me. Your fingers are the warmest thing in the world, I love them."

"Yeah?" Dean says, and turns his hand beneath Sam's, does something complicated so that their fingers entwine, Dean's hand against his face and Sam's own hand on top of that, all worked together, and Dean holding him steady. Holding them both steady, because Dean's smile isn't a smile anymore and there's something wrong with the way his pulse feels, echoing against Sam's own, and Sam has never once meant to do this to him, never once meant to make him feel anything like this.

"I need to stop making you sad," he says, and it's one of the truest things he's ever known. He would do it if only he could, do it in an instant, but he can never figure out _how_. "Dean, I don't mean to, I want to make you happy, that's all I ever wanna do, all the time forever, but I never get it right, I don't know why you got me out. Or why you don't put me back, find a better monster. There are lots of other, better ones, I'm smarter than some of them but only because I had to be, I knew you were coming back for me. Dean. I _knew_." He lets himself stroke the creases of Dean's knuckles, lets his fingers traipse across the back of Dean's hand, tracing the shape of a rune he's not supposed to know, and Dean's staring at him like he knows exactly how Sam feels, this rush of dizzying joy, elation, except there's something broken about it, too, like he started to smile again and then someone clubbed him hard across the chest and he's still trying to remember how to breathe, breathe around the ache like ice, the taste of blood in his mouth.

"You're not a monster," Dean says, so softly that Sam might have imagined it; he imagines so much about Dean, but the reality is always better. Dean looks away when he says it, though, and Sam knows he wouldn't have imagined that. Dean looks down, like he can't bear to look at Sam any longer, and Sam hopes that someday his ugly monster-face won't hurt Dean anymore, won't make Dean sad to look at it. He wouldn't mind dying, wouldn't mind even the end of his time with Dean, if he knew that it would make Dean happier, that it was what Dean wanted, not ever to have to see him anymore. But it _isn't_ what Dean wants, he knows that by now, even though he doesn't understand why.

"It's okay, Dean, I am, but it's okay. I'm with you, and you like me anyway, it's okay." He's been a monster his whole life, but he doesn't feel like one when he's with Dean, when Dean looks at him with eyes like what he imagines of spring rain, the way reals write about it in books, or holds him the way he's doing now, spreads slow heat throughout Sam's body, holds Sam's hand like it doesn't frighten him, doesn't disgust him at all, to touch a monster with kindness, to bestow upon Sam more goodness than any monster could ever deserve. "I don't know why you chose me, but I'm really glad you did." He lifts his chin as minutely as he can, alters slightly the angle of his cheek against the back of Dean's hand. He wants Dean to touch him everywhere, hold him close and wrap him up in warmth and never let him go and let him touch Dean's prickly-soft hair the way Dean touches his, but he can't think about that, because then he'll get distracted and forget that he's trying to make Dean want to look at him again, forget that he's trying to make Dean believe him. Dean touches him more often when he's trying to reassure him, trying to make Sam believe something, and he doesn't need to; all he has to do is ask, all he has to do is give the _word_ , and Sam will believe anything he says. But Dean touches him, puts his hand on his shoulder or catches his fingers across the table or _kisses_ him, and Sam loves him for it. "Thank you, thank you so much, Dean, outside is better than I could have ever thought. Even though I know monsters aren't meant to think about it, sometimes I did, sometimes I wondered. At the beginning, when you first talked to me, when you told me about it, I mean. Not when I just got there, not that beginning, I don't remember when that was. I don't remember . . ." He blinks, because he _should_ remember; before, it'd have been his life if he didn't, if he couldn't on command.

"It's okay, Sammy, you, uh. You don't gotta remember, okay?" Dean knuckles at his eyes with his free hand and leaves a smudge of Sam's blood, nearly bright as new again, on the slope of one temple. He doesn't even seem to notice it, but Sam looks at it, transfixed until Dean starts talking again. "'Cause I got you out, right. You're, you're here now, and that's what matters. Not the fact that I didn't fuckin--" and he cuts himself off the way he does sometimes, but he doesn't sound angry at something Sam doesn't understand, the way he usually does when he stops talking suddenly like that; he sounds worn, dull and defeated, no food tonight even though his back is striped brutal red and his jaw aches and he'd made the mistake of letting himself _hope_. He looks at Sam again at last, with something that's probably supposed to be a smile. It's not close, but Sam's overlooked so much more for him, and gladly so. "That's what matters, not anything else, so don't, don't think about the other stuff right now," Dean says, in a voice like broken glass is being dragged beneath his skin, and Sam would give anything for him not to sound like that, would give anything to set right what it is that he's done to Dean, whatever it might be. "Okay?" he asks, and it sounds like _please_.

"Okay," Sam answers instantly; this, at least, is something he knows how to do, something he can do for Dean, something that might make him happy, and when Dean's smile looks a little more like it should, after that, a little more genuine and true, he knows that he got it right.

"Yeah. Okay, good." Dean's other hand trails briefly along the line of Sam's jaw, heat lightning. Sam's marked in so many places by Dean's hands, Dean's fingerprints; put him beneath one of the blacklights the guards used on the djinn and they'd glow, possessive luminescence like moonlight on his skin. No one else would ever risk touching him, if they saw that, if they knew the force with which Dean would fight for him. "What do you say we get you cleaned up? You don't gotta move, I'll take, uh, I'll bring the stuff to you."

Sam feels his face squinch into a frown; he could probably stop it, if he wanted to, but he doesn't mind. "You said you'd come, too, when you were done." Dean needs to put his other hand back where Sam can try to reach it. He wants to run his thumb along its silhouette, the summits and low valleys of his fingers, boustrophedon. There and back again. He wants to hold on to Dean's hands and never let go, but Dean hates to be still, and the scariest moments are when he _is_ , worse than asleep, when he's unconscious, burning up or bleeding, or passed out hard. When he's awake, when he's _Dean_ , he's always rattling the keys to his car or crinkling a wrinkled roadmap as he gives it to Sam or looking up at the horizon in a way that Sam will never be able to, like he _owns_ it.

"I know, man, I know. But I'm not done yet, we gotta finish the whole thing or you're gonna be real uncomfortable when you wake up. Itchy and cold and shit."

"I don't care," Sam says. "I'm comfortable now. Nothing hurts, Dean, I swear."

Dean closes his eyes for a moment, half-moment, sweep of eyelashes cutting him off from the world, from _Sam_ , and Sam thinks of prayer. Does Dean ever pray? He's not sure. Dean says _Jesus_ a lot, which is religious, but he only ever says it when he's angry or tired, never like he really means it. He sounds reverent when he says that Jimmy Page is a goddamn god, though, so maybe he prays to him. The moment ends; his eyes open and he is steadier, now, when he looks at Sam. Fuller, more complete, more _Dean_ , a little more like he was before whatever Sam did to make him sad again. "Sorry, Sam. I just gotta do this one thing, it'll just take a second, and then we'll get you into a clean shirt, and that'll be it, okay? Then we can, we can get some sleep."

"I don't wanna sleep." Though he's not sure what he does want to do, exactly, what Dean will let him do once he's done fixing him and done lying beside him, when he leaves the way he usually does when Sam causes him to look like this, makes him do something he doesn't want to. Maybe Dean will give him suggestions before he goes, give him a list of options from which he can choose. Dean does that, sometimes, narrows down the world for him, translates it into something he can understand. Monster brains aren't built to be able to process information the way real ones are; Sam is good at memorizing and at recognizing patterns, but he can't imagine ever being able to walk into an ice cream shop and choose a flavor from the list of so many, not without Dean at his side, Dean helping him choose between only two at a time, and explaining to him what each name means. _Rocky road_ is not a trap for monsters, listed because only monsters would be willing to eat dirt and stupid enough to go into a place for _reals_ to do it; choosing that flavor doesn't mean the man behind the counter will call the ASC or anybody else, Dean had said, and risked ordering it himself to show Sam the truth of his words.

"Or, or," Dean says, like the seals on the television show they watched together last week, and Sam hears himself make that strange bright noise again, the tinsel of small laughter. It's odd how familiar that sound is becoming, that sound and the feeling that sparks it. It spills so easily out of him, like he's bleeding something beautiful. Dean's expression relaxes a shade, too, like he's thinking the same thing. "Or we can do whatever. I promise."

"Okay," Sam says, because it's what Dean wants, wants enough to make Sam a promise about it, and Dean never breaks his promises, but Sam doesn't really mean it. It isn't okay. If Dean leaves even for an instant, Sam'll grow cold and lonely, unwarmed and forgotten; he _will_ hurt, then. And what if Dean never comes back?

"I swear to God, Sam, I will always, _always_ come back for you," Dean says, unexpectedly fervent, and Sam hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud. He hadn't _meant_ to speak aloud. He thinks he should blush, now, or cringe, should be ashamed that he said something so needy, so mistrusting, so _horrible_ , to Dean, but he _isn't_ ; his freak body isn't betraying him, isn't drawing even more attention to his failure. He's just breathing, like he was, and absorbing the feeling of having Dean so close, still, Dean's fingers wrapped around his, and that fact alone is amazing. "You know that, right? You believe that?" Dean asks, and he is still touching Sam, still letting Sam cling to his hand, and he is looking at Sam like his own life depends on Sam's answer, like _no_ might kill him surely as a bullet to the head or any of the other merciful ways of death reserved for reals would, so Sam nods. Even though Dean might not, if he knew. Even though if he knew, he might recoil in hate, might strike out for the first time at last, one blow that will ring deep into Sam's bones, send him crashing to his knees as Dean turns away forever and never, ever looks back.

"Yes," Sam says, and hopes very much that his voice doesn't give away any more of his thoughts. It sounds the same to him, the same as it did before it got weak and gave him away, this distant, vaguely-unfamiliar dream-voice, and maybe it will to Dean, too.

Dean looks at him intently, mouth pursed and forehead creased again like he's trying to tell whether or not Sam's lying, and then he presses his lips together in the way that means he's decided something important. "Okay," he says, though he sounds a little sad when he says it, and he squeezes Sam's hand once before he disentangles it gently from his own. Sam feels his monster-fingers curl instinctively, reaching to hold something that is no longer there, to _keep_ it; he tells his body not to, but it doesn't listen and his hand closes around too late around nothing, anyway, desolate and empty. "I'll be right back," Dean says. "I'm just gonna get a towel from the bathroom, Sammy, and grab one a' your shirts, it's not gonna take long." His eyes are sad again, too, rainwashed and tired, and Sam is such a _needy_ monster, to make him look like this, to keep asking so much of his time, and to keep _taking_ it. Of course Dean wants to go spend time with reals, not with Sam, and as long as Sam keeps asking things of him, keeps asking him to stay, he'll be obliged to do so, because he is so good that he would put what a _monster_ wants before what he wants, himself, as long as that monster is Sam.

He broke Dean, Sam thinks hazily, or infected him, ruined him the way all freaks do to reals, only this way, what Sam is doing, is worse, because instead of just killing Dean outright and letting him be free to go up to heaven with all of the other reals, he's making it happen slowly, dragging Dean down more and more every day, _draining_ him. Already he's made Dean so sick that Dean can't even say _no_ to him, can't turn down his wishes, and maybe doesn't even know anymore that he should _want_ to. It's Dean who's sick, but Sam's the one whose stomach is roiling at the thought

Sam swallows hard, feeling something catch in his throat like the nights when he can't keep from crying against Dean's chest. Maybe that's when it happens, maybe that's how Sam does it, when Dean holds him close and Sam gets sick monster-tears all over his shirt and his hands and his skin. Sam doesn't mean to, it's an _accident_ , he didn't know he was doing it, he never would have, not to anybody, not to Dean, but now that he knows that he is, he can't just _pretend_ , and he wonders if he would have understood eventually anyway, if Dean hadn't given him these drugs that make everything blurry and his thoughts flow together like this, blending one into another without the precision freak-logic is meant to have.

Dean gave him a cell phone, he remembers. It only has two numbers in it, and one of them is Dean's, but the other belongs to another hunter, one Dean trusts, and maybe Sam can make himself be brave enough to call him. It seems possible, right now, even though that might only be because of the drugs Dean gave him, but he would do anything for Dean, so maybe he can make himself do it anyway. Maybe he can explain that he didn't mean to do it (filthy lying freak, why would anyone _believe_ him, especially _now_ ) and maybe if he is very, very lucky, Bobby Singer will honor the promise that Dean made to Sam, even though Dean probably only did so because Sam had been so close to him for so long already.

But Bobby Singer _tested_ him, tested him in all the ways that should have determined whether Sam's capable of doing anything like this, and Sam might be a smart monster, smart enough to have survived Freak Camp, but he isn't _that_ smart, smart enough to know how to evade those tests, or special enough to be able to. Which means that he _can't_ be doing this, at least not because he's a monster, and maybe that's worse, that he's doing it because he's _Sam_.

And if _that's_ why he's doing it, doing this horrible thing to Dean, then he can't do anything about it, even if he can make himself be brave enough to use his cell phone, because that's the part of him that Dean loves, really and truly, the part that Sam didn't even know existed until Dean said it did, and maybe it didn't, not before then. _Sam_ is _all_ he is, according to Dean, not a monster at all, or a freak, or any of those other words those sons a'bitches used and they'd never fucking call anyone _anything_ ever again, Dean said once, in the cold grey light of three-thirty a.m. when Sam's breath was hitching and his hands were curled around his pillow because he didn't trust himself not to hurt Dean, to hold on too tightly, to leave marks like Dean said he isn't allowed to leave on himself. Dean was going to hunt them down and fucking make sure they spent the rest of their lives eating through a straw if they were _lucky_ , and then Sam had _had_ to make himself let go of the pillow and hold on to Dean instead, because what if he whimpered, what if Dean's threats scared him, even though they were _for_ him, Dean was trying to help, and surely it was better to risk Dean telling him he was holding on too tight than to make a noise that would make Dean look sick and broken and ashamed.

If it isn't the freak part that's doing this, if it's the part that doesn't belong to the number on his chest, then there's no way he can ask one of Dean's friends to put him down, because Dean wouldn't understand. It wouldn't be putting down a monster, it would be putting down _Sam_ , Dean's Sam, even though maybe he has the same effect on Dean either way, whether he's a disgusting dangerous little whore like the guards said or whether he's the only person Dean wants to have watch his back, the only person Dean trusts, whether he's a _person_ at all, for real. And Sam thinks that no matter what, that would hurt Dean, because it would be just like if he got hurt on a hunt and died; he'd be dead, whatever he was, whatever he _is_ , and he thinks that would be worse, somehow, than what he does to Dean every day, because it would be forever and he could never, ever make it up to him, never be brave enough or good enough to make him smile ever again.

Sam has read, in those books by reals, about how this works, too. About how sometimes reals love each other so much that they would do anything for each other, they love each other despite how much it hurts and how much it wears them down, almost like they would die for each other the way Sam would for Dean, and maybe _that's_ what this is, only it can't be because no matter what Dean says, Sam's a monster. It's written on his skin and in everything he's done, everything he chose to do, _let_ himself do, and can never take back. He is _not_ a real.

And then Dean leans in, as though maybe he knows what Sam's thinking, or has at least a vague idea; he leans in slowly, as though he thinks Sam might try to run if he were to move any faster, as though he thinks Sam would _ever_ run from him, and brushes his lips to Sam's forehead. Holds them there, mouth warm and dry, for not nearly long enough, and then he pulls back, and Sam is not sure he can trust his vision, infused as it is suddenly with light, the wrong time of day for stars, but _oh_ , he sees them all the same, luminous as his body feels; he feels Dean's hand slipping through his hair, carding it back behind his ear, the brush of Dean's knuckles against the skin just below, and cannot keep his reaction from showing on his face. He blinks to clear his eyes, worried that he might miss a second of _Dean_ , and Dean looks more sure, less sad, less afraid, less like he thinks Sam might be keeping things from him, dark and terrible monster secrets, secrets that _hurt_ him, though Sam doesn't get to look for long. Dean stands, the mattress shifting anchorless in his absence, and he turns away quickly, as though he can't bear to look at Sam for an instant longer, and Sam's eyes sting again, unbidden tears, at the sight of Dean's back turned to him like a dream-echo, confirmation of every single one of his nightmares, _I always knew you weren't worth my time_ in the way Dean's head is bowed, _I should never have gotten you out_ in the slope of his shoulders. He makes his hands into fists, as best as he can, so that he won't be tempted to reach out, and bites his lip so that he won't _call_ out, some pathetic monster's plea that will get in the way of what Dean needs to do and will remind him once more that Sam can't control himself, cannot be trusted even to be _quiet_.

His mouth stings, then, mirror to his eyes, and he tastes blood, his monster-heart breaking, spilling out; Dean _took care_ of him, took care of him in a way that he'd never even considered, took care of him like a _real_ , and sat beside him and twined their hands together and filled his whole body with heat, as though every dirty monster part of him had been replaced with sunlight, but it couldn't last, and it _can't_ last, because he's a monster and sooner or later Dean will understand that, that you can't love _monsters_ , and what if Dean never comes back, Dean will never come back, Dean will find out what he did and hate him for letting his filthy mouth ever come _near_ Dean, or maybe Dean won't find out but the other reals will and they'll hurt Dean for it, they'll hurt him and Sam won't be able to move to help him, to take his place; he can hardly even lift his hands, and he feels the hot tears sliding down his cheeks, this time, but cannot even wipe them away.

Dean _kissed_ him, though. A desperate thought, and dangerous, tainted with hope, but he doesn't want to be crying if Dean looks back at him, if Dean looks back to see if Sam trusts him as much as he trusts Sam, if this is some kind of test at last. Dean kissed him, and if Dean can't stand to look at him, why would he have done that? Sam hadn't _asked_ it of him, wouldn't have dreamed of asking it of him, and that means Dean couldn't have felt obliged to, couldn't have done it only out of pity for a weak, disgusting monster, or because Sam _made_ him. Dean came up with the idea on his own, did it because he _wanted_ to, because he loves him. Because Sam's a _part_ of him, and Dean loves him, and maybe it _doesn't_ hurt to look at him. Maybe Dean was only afraid that if he did it for too long, he wouldn't be able to look away ever again, the same thought Sam has sometimes when he's sneaking a look at _him_. Maybe Dean didn't want to turn away; maybe he only did it because he cares so much about Sam that he's willing to ignore what he wants, what he wants to do with Sam. Maybe he would have kissed him for even longer, if Sam hadn't let himself get hurt. Maybe he would have kissed Sam on the mouth, and wrapped him up in his arms, and told him that he's better than pie and ice cream and Raiders, and Sam still doesn't know what that means but he thinks it's good, because Dean looks so incredibly happy when he says it.

Maybe Dean will do all of those things when he comes back, when he finishes taking care of Sam, but maybe he won't want to if he sees that Sam doubted even for a second. Sam exhales carefully; his breath sounds shuddery, fluttering, and his heart still hurts, his hands are cold and empty and missing Dean's, the way they fit together and how it made everything easier. He hopes that Dean will hurry back, will make him warm again, will make his chest stop aching. He's not sure how long he'll be able to remember that Dean loves him, even though that thought should burn brighter than everything else; he thinks he might lose it again if Dean takes too long, so he squeezes his eyes closed against the distraction of the ceiling, and tries to think very hard about it and nothing else.

Dean loves him. Dean loves him, and that's all that matters, all that's ever mattered, all that will. The fact defines his life, defines _him_ , just as it always has, even when he didn't yet have the words for it, and he won't let himself forget it now, he won't.

He won't.

\--


	3. Chapter 3

The water takes fucking _forever_ to warm up, but no way's Dean going back out there and wiping Sam's face, _touching_ him, with something cold, something that'll make him wince and shiver and huddle further into the pillows, all while he looks up at Dean with hazy adoration, like Dean could do fucking _anything_ to him and it'd be okay as long as he kept touching him, as long as he kept his hand where Sam could hold it, and that breaks his heart all over again, the way everything about Sam always seems to. Like the fact that, sure, it takes goddamn _drugs_ , but beneath everything else, the veneer of horror and desperation and _broken_ that some days seems to go all the way down to Sam's _soul_ , to be all that those motherfucking sons of bastard-ridden _bitches_ left of Dean's kid, beneath all the fucking anxiety and fear and flinching, all the fucking _trauma_ \-- which is so not even the word for what happened to Sam but what the fuck _ever_ \-- there's still a Sam capable of saying random stupid shit just like everybody else, just like Dean vaguely remembers from every time _he's_ ended up in the hospital, _my dad's a hero, 'm gonna be like him when I grow up, my bes' friend's birthday's inna a week an' I'm gonna get him_ so _much food you wanna come with an' meet him wait what day's it where'm I,_ you _are the most beautiful fucking nurse in the whole_ world _I swear to God_ (and, fuck, the hospital's where Sam _should_ be, probably, except for no, Dean just fixed his arm, which is sort of like fixing him, at least as much as Dean possibly can right now and that is so fucking laughable in an incredibly sickening way if he stops to think about it, and Sam is fucking _terrified_ of hospitals, which itself makes the idea not even a _possibility_ ), just like any other stoned kid down a very-nearly-dangerous amount of blood. That right there, the fact that despite everything there is this other Sam, this Sam-that-could-have-been maybe all the time, buried so fucking far below everything, is like a goddamn bullet to the chest (what if he'd gotten there sooner, kept his word _sooner_ , done _better_ , what if what if what if Sam could have been more like _okay_ ), and for all the times Dean's sworn he's a heartless bastard, had to be for all the girls he's ditched and all the civvies whose kids or moms or dads, wives or husbands, he's shot in the head and left with a _good luck, give somebody you trust a call_ if that, Christ, Sam makes a liar out of him a thousand times over.

Because there's that, and there's, too, the fact it aches just the fucking same for how it takes goddamn _drugs_ , painkillers, goddamned stop-hurting-all-fucking-over-and-that-includes-your-brain _drugs_ , for Sam to be able to reach for his hand, to fucking _touch_ him, skin to skin instead of settling for Dean's shirt or the edge of his jacket, something so goddamn small that he thinks is the best he can even hope for the way he usually does, and then it's like that's all Sam's ever wanted, to lie there with stitches in his arm and blood on his face, stoned out of his fucking brilliant incredible _mind_ , touching his hand to Dean's, twisting his fingers around Dean's, playing with Dean's fingers like they're the most fascinating things he's ever seen. Like he, like he survived Freak Camp and fucking _monster death matches_ just so he could be amazed by Dean's hands or something, Jesus _Christ_.

And the water's hot, fucking _hot_ all of a sudden, and, God, how long has he been hiding out in here waiting for just that, and how long has he not _noticed_? He soaks the washcloth, wrings it out, catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he turns, and there's another damned question, because how long has he had Sam's blood on him like this, like war paint or something holy, anointed? Not that it matters, of course; it can wait, washing it off can wait, but he hopes like hell and heaven and wherever the fuck else might matter that it hasn't made things worse for Sam, the way he always seems to make things worse for Sam no matter what he does, how hard he tries. The way he promised Sam so sincerely, so fucking _genuinely_ because he meant it absolutely, meant it with every single bone in his body and breath that he took, that he was going to _take care_ of him, and of course that's the exact same fucking phrase they used in fucking Freak Camp for _murder_. Of _course_ it is, and no wonder Sam was looking at him like he expected Dean to just _leave_ him there, leave him there all by himself in agony, to cry or pass out from the pain or die of goddamn blood loss or all of the above, or for Dean to put a bullet in his head, no wonder the kid was fucking crying.

The _kid_ , the kid who is Dean's whole world, _Sam_ , who is still waiting for Dean, who wants Dean to come _sit_ by him, maybe stretch out next to him, beside him, close enough to touch; to keep him company, keep him warm, make sure he doesn't feel like he's going to be left, alone or at all ever, and there's no way Dean's going to deny him that, especially not when at last he's actually asking for it, so instead (as if there's any other option, as if there ever could be) Dean calls himself a fucking pussy one last time, calls himself a goddamned loser with a life laid out in promises broken who needs to keep his mouth _shut_ , and he folds the washcloth as neatly as he can with hands that aren't nearly as steady as they should be, and he goes back out into the room without once looking back, without one fucking moment of hesitation.

He goes back out into the room where Sam has, apparently, been crying, because his face is streaked with new tears, and where Sam is lying with blood on his mouth that Dean doesn't remember from a moment ago, and with his eyes squeezed closed like he's in fucking _agony_ , and why didn't he call out, why the _hell_ didn't he call out, even just Dean's name, Dean's name in a fucking whisper and Dean would have come back in a _second_ , in a heartbeat, as soon as Sam opened his mouth. Which is exactly what Dean had said he'd do anyway, so _of course_ Sam was waiting. Of _course_ he didn't want to bother Dean, because he's already bothered him enough, right? Like it's so much to expect that Dean actually wants to make him better, fix up his arm and make sure he's not hurting anymore.

Jesus fucking Christ, Dean hates understanding, hates knowing what each and every one of these things means to Sam. And he hates, at the same time, knowing how much he does _not_ know, because it's _that_ that means he's going to keep fucking up, and one of these times, maybe _this_ time, who knows, it's going to be irrevocable.

"Sammy," he says, his mouth desert-dry, bone-dry, salt-dry with dread, and it's _not_ a question, it's not anything, it's just -- it's just that he's scared of what the response might be, of the pain he'll see in Sam's eyes, etched on his face, and so, because he's a damned coward, he can't make himself tell Sam to open his eyes just yet. Can't make himself even _ask_ , because he will not give Sam anything that might be mistaken for an order, sure as hell not right now. And a statement is safe. A statement, just Sam's _name_ (which is, at the same time, fucking _everything_ ) doesn't ask anything of Sam that he might not be ready to do, or that Dean might not be ready to see, and fucking _hell_ , Dean is a goddamned coward, and Sam deserves better.

Sam deserves so, so, _so_ much better.

But Sam doesn't know that, of course Sam doesn't know that, and so he _does_ , he opens his eyes as soon as Dean says his name, and he _smiles_ , and it's fucking radiant, and it makes Dean want to cry, how genuine it is and how he'd give fucking _anything_ for Sam to get to keep it, for it to be Sam's forever and always, for _him_ to get to keep it, and how nothing he has to give would be enough; nothing he has, nothing he could possibly give would be enough to let Sam stay like this no matter which deep-hell god with whom he bartered, with whom he begged, and, Christ, he'd sell his own tattered soul if he thought it would work, if he thought there was a fucking snowball's chance.

"I remembered," Sam says dreamily, and Dean swallows; he doesn't want to know. He'd thought that he did, last time, a few minutes ago and a lifetime ago, or at least years; before Sam started telling him about how he'd only fucking managed to survive being put in a fucking _death_ match, _repeatedly_ , because he was worried that Dean would be mad at him for, for wasting his time otherwise, as though any second he's ever spent with Sam, any second he ever would, ever _will_ spend with Sam, could ever be called wasted, could ever be called anything other than a gift, even those seconds (minutes, hours, _days_ ) in which Sam's locked in his head and Dean can't touch him for fear of making it worse.

Dean'd thought that he wanted to know, had fucking _hoped_ , had this dumb fucking idea that he might be able to _help_ , if he knew, if _only_ he knew; this idea that he could do _something_ , maybe, no matter how small, but it turns out that, just like always, all he's good for is patching up the exit wounds.

But that's better than nothing, and Sam _needs_ better than nothing. He needs all that Dean can give, no matter how small and insignificant that is, and Dean would give anything for him, anything and in an instant, no question, so he makes himself do it. He makes himself ask, though he knows he'll be seeing the answer in his nightmares, maybe every day for the rest of his life, as he lowers himself back on to the bed. He uses the movement as an excuse not to meet Sam's eyes, and, God, he's a coward, but if Sam needs to tell him something, if that'll help, there's no way he's going to tell him to keep it to himself, and that, at least, he can do. Or not do. Whatever. Even though he thinks it might kill him, hearing Sam tell him about being fucking _tortured_ , with that euphoric look on his face as he describes it. "Remembered what, Sammy?"

"That you'd come back," Sam says, and for somebody who can hardly move, he's fucking amazing, as usual; he's pressed up against Dean's side again in an instant, hip notched against Dean's own and his head's listing off the pillow, like he's trying to get even closer to Dean, like he's got some idea about wrapping _around_ Dean, resting his head in Dean's lap, and no fucking _way_ , Dean needs to stop projecting. Any goddamn second now. The thought'd be dangerous enough on any _other_ day; today it might be suicidal. "You kissed me."

"Uh." He's going to blame the fact that one of Sam's hands just curled clumsily around his own, that Sam just _reached_ for him again, took his hand and didn't even _ask_ , for permission or anything else, and the way Sam's thumb is currently rubbing along the side of his palm, settling briefly above the pulse in his wrist as though Sam's reveling for a moment in the pounding of his heart, or at least finding reassurance there, before beginning to move again, for the way his brain's currently short-circuiting. He should have _known_ better, damn it, but Sam had looked so goddamn deadened, before, fucking devastated, and so incredibly happy, after; he'd _beamed_ at Dean, and it hadn't even been a PG kiss, it'd been fucking _chaste_. Total G stuff. Fun for the whole family, and oh, Dean's panicking now, that'll help. He's _not_ going to think about Sam's soft hair slipping between his fingers. "Yeah? Um. Yeah, I did, I didn't mean, I hope you didn't--"

"You should do it again," Sam says, lifting his chin so that instead of looking somewhere in the area of Dean's chest, or maybe a little to the left, he's looking directly _at_ Dean, complete and fucking full eye contact that steals the breath right out of Dean's mouth, lungs, body, and, fuck, he sounds way too confident. Way too _certain_ , with that -- that declaration, not even a _request_ , and he doesn't sound like Sam at all. Or he _does_ , but some alternate-universe Sam, a Sam who's never once had to endure anything that _his_ Sam has, who has never had to question anything, ask for anything, beg for anything, be told that he doesn't _deserve_ anything, and, yeah, Dean knows Sam's drugged, stoned, out of his fucking mind to the point of probably fucking _hallucinating_ , or at least thinking he's dreaming, half-awake or less, but for a second Dean's almost thinking a shifter -- but, God, the smile's the same, absolutely and exactly.

This _is_ his Sam, and his eyes, his fucking gorgeous autumn eyes, Dean would know them anywhere, the way they catch at his heart, catch and latch and _tear_ , that and the way Sam looks at him like there's nothing in the whole universe _but_ him, nothing worth remembering, nothing that matters, and Dean's not sure when he dropped the washcloth, but suddenly it's not in his hand anymore.

"I should?" he says, and, God, yeah, once more this is so not his day for eloquence. Then again, Sam tends to have that effect on him, so maybe he should be used to it by now, at least rationally, but no one has ever called Dean Winchester _rational_ and he knows he'll never, _ever_ get used to Sam. "Let's, uh, let's get you cleaned up first, huh, go from there," empty words, easy words, easier than actually trying to think about what Sam just said, whether he actually fucking meant it, and _Jesus_ , Dean, of course he didn't mean it, Sam's fucking blitzed. Where the hell is the washcloth? He _just_ had it. He spies it at last beside the bed, soaking into what's passing for the carpet, and reaches down to grab it, semi-warm terrycloth against his fingers. He hopes it's still clean; it _looks_ clean enough. Which means that he needs to apply it as gently as possible to Sam's face, now, which means he needs to look at Sam, and he should not find that prospect absolutely fucking terrifying, he should fucking _trust_ himself. Sam trusts him. Sam knows he's not gonna -- do anything. Sam _doesn't_ know how very fucking much he _wants_ to do something, and how often; how very fucking badly he would like to push Sam up against the door of his car, to go to his knees before him when he's sitting on the end of the bed, watching TV intently with his elbows on his knees and his chin between his palms and his teeth pressing into his lower lip, to twist a hand into his hair and lean across the table of whatever fucking diner they're in in whatever the hell state, jar the silverware and spill the coffee, salt across the table for luck, and leave Sam gasping and breathless and flushed and glowing. How very fucking much he would like, at this moment, to forget the damn washcloth, to pull Sam up to him, all warm slight-weight and sleep-smoggy, heavy-lidded and drug-smoky eyes and hands that wrap so fucking elegant, so fucking _hot_ , around the grip of a gun and around Dean's own hand now, and to kiss him until neither of them can stand anymore, dizzy and balance-wrecked, ruined, heat-desperate, before dragging him down on to the clean bed, unspilled-blood bed, and making sure that for the next few hours, at least, he's not thinking about anything other than how much Dean loves him, the geometry of skin and salt, the architecture of his hips and the motion of Dean's mouth on them, all _over_ him, each and all carrying a fraction of that boundless and immutable truth, how very fucking much Dean wants to be _close_ to him and how that's _everything_.

Sam doesn't know that, and maybe he should, but not today. Not right now, not if Dean can help it. So he bites the inside of his cheek, hard, and looks back at Sam with what he hopes is a reassuring smile, though he'd settle for it not being a grimace. Sam's head is still halfway on the pillow, angled towards Dean, but his hand has stilled around Dean's, and he's not smiling anymore, and that would be a fucking tragedy, except for how Dean _recognizes_ this new expression, because this one he has seen before, numerous times; this is Sam intent. This is Sam trying to work something out, determine whether it would be genuinely better from any point of view to order the Grilled Chicken Caesar Salad with Garlic as opposed to the Garlic Chicken Caesar Salad (Grilled), or solve one of those logic puzzles with the blocks and the wires that Dean finally convinced him to keep in the glove compartment so he'd be able to reach it when he wanted it instead of having to twist around and rummage in his duffel every time, and Dean knows he's not nearly so complex a problem. Sam'll see through him in a fucking _second_ , if he hasn't already, and if he hasn't, it's probably only 'cause he's seeing double or triple or some shit, his speed of thought slowed down to something slightly less genius than usual.

"You said you'd lie down with me when you'd patched up my arm," Sam says slowly, words carefully enunciated, focused, like he can see the argument unfolding behind his eyes as he speaks, like he's reading it aloud from somewhere deep inside himself. "And then you said you had to get a towel. And you have a towel. And you're taking too long. But you love me. So you're scared."

Jesus _fuck_ , Sam did not actually just say that. Clearly Dean just -- snapped, or something, broke for a second in an exciting _new_ way and imagined it, and that's a much better thought than the idea that he actually said any of the other stuff out loud, the stuff about what exactly he has wanted to do, would like to do, _wants_ to do with Sam, because even if Sam only picked up on one aspect of it, it's not, it's _not_ something he should have to know. Not something he should have to remember, later, when he's not drugged out of his mind, when he's not stoned to the point of everything being _okay_ , when it might terrify him and with good reason; not when it might ruin _everything_. How will he be able to trust Dean now, trust Dean then; trust anything Dean says, when he _knows_ , and is it the washcloth that's gone cold, or is it Dean himself? Dean can't tell.

"It's okay," Sam says, and relaxes, body loosening an impossible fraction further, his expression becoming slightly less scrutinizing, making him look more like a kid again, never once haunted or hunted or weary in the least, and that's exactly what _doesn't_ need to happen, because Dean really, really needs to not be having these kinds of thoughts about somebody who looks like, in any other life, all he'd have to worry about is his math homework and whether the pretty girl he likes is going to want to go to the prom with him (and what the _fuck_ is wrong with her if she doesn't; she's entirely theoretical and she's a goddamn moron), and then Sam's hand is moving again, long fingers tracing Dean's knuckles, and he's smiling distractedly down at them, at the way their hands fit together, no longer looking at Dean's face, no longer looking brazen and sure into his eyes, and that should be a relief; it should not leave Dean with yet another ache, an ache like he's just been hollowed out, had taken from him something vital and true as a broken heart. "You don't have to be scared, Dean, I promise. I figured it out," Sam says, and he should not be the one trying to comfort Dean, here; Dean's meant to be taking care of _him_.

"Good," Dean says, because he has to say something, though his mouth has gone dry once more. He wants to push Sam's hair off of his forehead, out of his face again, help him ease back down to the pillow and tell him to go sleep, hope Sam won't remember this in the morning; he wants to make himself back the fuck away from his kid, watch from the somewhat-safer distance of the other bed until Sam's fallen asleep, and then get the hell out, find somewhere loud and choked with smoke and liquor, where he can try to forget for a fucking _second_ how very badly he just fucked up. Fucked them _both_ up. He wants to say _fuck it_ and lean in and kiss Sam now, kiss Sam while Sam _knows_ , knows everything and yet doesn't look afraid, to kiss him while Sam might be able to know what it means, what _all_ of it means, that Dean loves him, is _in_ love with him, and it's the world, eternity, everything Dean has ever known or understood of _truth_. "That's -- that's good, Sammy. I'm, uh, glad. Just, um, I'm gonna get some a' this blood off your face, now, okay? It's not gonna hurt, it'll just take a second, and then we can, uh."

"You're not listening," Sam says, and did he just roll his _eyes_? Maybe it was a blink. It's hard to tell; Sam's still not looking at him directly and Dean's kind of having trouble processing at the moment. Processing, and breathing; he's never had his back to the wall quite like this before, has never had it matter this much. Knives and guns are nothing compared to Sam, to Sam's eyes. "You're talking too fast again. I told you you were scared."

"I'm listening, Sammy," Dean says, and he _is_ , he's always, always listening to Sam. Though he wishes he hadn't been, this time. "You figured it out, I'm, I'm proud of you," and that's true, too, he _is_ , because Sam's the smartest person he knows, and of course he was gonna figure it out, figure out what Dean's thinking. Not all the time, but _enough_ of the time, enough of the time that there's no way Dean can explain it away, make it something harmless, make it something that's _okay_. Sam's smart and he figured it out and that's good because it means he'll know better than to trust Dean like he has been, it means he'll be able to decide maybe that he doesn't want to be with Dean after all in any way, and, yeah, Dean's proud of him. For figuring it out.

It isn't Sam's fault that that comes with the sound of Dean's world starting to crumble down all around him. It wasn't a very big world anyway, hardly encompassing more than this kid beside him, this boy he loves like something out of a movie, the way his heart feels larger for that love always, even as that love leaves his heart tattered and bullet-riddled and still beating, impossibly, still holding on, holding on so goddamn tight to this kid, wrapped up in the way he smiles and bound to the shape of his body and the way he fits against Dean and his own heart beats through his chest, like an answer felt through Dean's knuckles or the palm of his hand, an answer for which there are not words. Or maybe there are, probably there are, and Sam would know them; Sam does know them, if they exist, the way Sam knows everything, so much more than Dean, and that _everything_ is ruinous now, even as Dean is so fucking proud of how brilliant his kid is, still.

The world should be coming down faster, Dean thinks, for how fucking small it is, how it wasn't much larger than Sam and a car and the knowledge that there's maybe one person in the whole fucking country who'd be glad to see him if he showed up on his doorstep.

"You," Sam says. "I figured _you_ out." Part of Dean's glad that Sam's not looking at him directly, then, that Sam's apparently still fucking entranced by his own hand, by Dean's hand, their hands together, whatever; another part of him wishes like hell that Sam would look him in the eye, as though the shame and guilt Sam would see there could possibly make this better, salvage anything, as though Sam knowing that Dean fucking _knows_ he has good reason to hate himself for this might actually matter.

"Yeah?" And Dean doesn't _want_ to know, doesn't want to hear _Dean Winchester in twenty-five words or less_ from one of the three still-living people who have ever mattered to him, but he's on a roll today, all these nasty little revelations; it'd be a shame to stop now, and, yeah, maybe he actually does want to know this, too. Maybe he does. Maybe he does want to know exactly what Sam thinks of him. It's what he deserves, after all, and then Sam looks up at him and his eyes are knowing, _impossibly_ knowing, but his smile is seraphic and how the fuck is Dean going to live without that smile, without maybe ever seeing it again?

"You don't need to be scared, Dean. It's okay. I'm your monster. I love you, too," Sam says, and what the fuck, seriously, what the _fuck_ did he just say, no, Dean knows _exactly_ what he just said, no accusation at all, nor even the slightest shade of disappointment or fear, and something releases in his chest, something unlocks behind his ribs, ruby-red and beating once more; he can breathe again, breathe in deep. Of course that's all this is, of _course_ , Sam's stoned and fucking blissful, in love with the whole damn world and certain for once that it loves him back, and Dean feels himself smiling in response, hard enough to hurt and impossible to hold back, though he wouldn't have even if he could, and if he leaned in now, he could touch his forehead to Sam's, Sam's blood on both of them already; he could touch his mouth to Sam's, he could feel Sam smile against him, could give Sam everything he thinks he wants, everything he maybe _does_ want right now, because right now Sam _loves_ him, even if he shouldn't, even if he should want better, should _love_ better, and--

And if Sam lifts his head, shifts, angles himself the barest fraction of an inch towards Dean, it turns out, the same thing can happen, and it _does_. It does.

He kisses Sam back automatically, because _Jesus yes Sam_ , like there was ever a question, Sam's mouth against his at once familiar and overwhelming as always, because it's _Sam_ , Sam who it feels sometimes (always) like he's spent his whole life waiting for, Sam who sometimes he thinks he's spent his whole life _living_ for; overwhelming as always on any day, and now more than ever, because Sam kissed _him_ , Sam kissed him rather than waiting like the goddamn Buddha while Dean touched his face, lifted his jaw, only reacting when Dean's mouth touched his, only smiling afterward, and even then, only something small and secret and hushed, like he thought it might never happen again if he dared look too damned genuinely _happy_ about it. And it's overwhelming as always, surely, and now more than ever, because Sam said that he loves him, loves him _too_ , and, yeah, Sam's stoned, no doubt about that at all, but the thought had to come from _somewhere_ , and Dean's rapidly coming around to the idea that maybe he meant it after all, the way he's licking at Dean's mouth and his eyes are closed and he's making these low, contented sounds in his throat that are at once gorgeous and addictive and fucking _dangerous_ , what they're gonna be doing to Dean any second now. _Wanton_ , that's the word, fucking weird because why the fuck's he remembering high school English at all, red-headed tight-t-shirted Jenna Hauser in the front row not even coming _close_ to comparing to Sam, and why the fuck's he remembering that _now_ , and because, Jesus, this is his Sam, his _Sam_ , fucking _wanton_ and making these noises that edge softly and without warning beneath Dean's skin, soft and low and not so much sweet as rough and keening and _needing_ , and make him itch in ways which he really fucking cannot acknowledge right now; this is his Sam, who sometimes cannot speak to tell him what he wants for breakfast, cannot find the voice to tell him whether he wants dessert or whether he's tired or whether he's _okay_ , whether he'll shatter if Dean gets any closer or whether it's okay if Dean rests a hand on his shoulder for even a fraction of a second.

Dean's only vaguely aware of the washcloth falling out of his hand once more, and fuck, it doesn't matter, it doesn't compare at _all_ to how Sam's let go of his hand like he's overwhelmed too, like he can't think about anything other than Dean's mouth against his, and the stupid fucking washcloth's gonna need to be heated up anyway, probably rinsed off, whatever, it can wait, and this angle's really fucking bad for Sam's neck, which absolutely takes priority. Dean slips one hand through Sam's hair and he's not savoring that, he's _not_ , he's not paying attention to the way Sam tilts his head slightly as though to lean into the touch, as though he fucking relishes the friction of Dean's fingers; Dean is _not_ paying attention to how easily his kid's hair slides through his fingers, how Sam actually fucking pushes _into_ the touch, like he wants it, craves it, just as badly, Dean's fingers scritching lightly at his scalp. Dean rests his hand against the hot skin at back of Sam's neck, supporting him, making this easier, less painful for his kid, that's _all_ , and maneuvers the other as carefully as he can around Sam's side, wary of his injured arm, and presses his palm against his back to brace him, drawing Sammy closer in the process. That part's not deliberate. It's not. This is just. A thing. That's happening. And in a second, it won't be, because he'll remember what he's meant to be doing and make this stop, he'll finish taking care of Sam in the way _he_ meant, but right _now_ , it is, it's absolutely a thing that is happening and that he'll remember and he will live with forever, and it's Sam's mouth open beneath his and Sam breathing against his lips and against his skin and sighing something that might be nothing, might be nothing at all but the jagged edge of breath, but might also be Dean's _name_ , Dean's name over and over again, and his body is hot against Dean's, fever-pitch ratcheting of one or both of their hearts, and Sam has one knee bent, pressed up against Dean's back as though to keep him there, hold him close and tight, and Dean's half-kneeling over him and when the fuck did that happen, he has no recollection of how that happened, what the _fuck_ , this is so fucking not PG, Jesus fucking Christ.

"Sammy," he says when he can breathe steadily again, or close enough, and turns his head so that he's not looking directly at Sam, so that he doesn't get tempted again, doesn't _let_ himself, though he does let himself rest his head against Sam's, and maybe that counts just as badly. "Uh. We should. Um." He pauses, because why the hell is thinking so difficult right now. "Finish getting you cleaned up, right. So that I can, uh, Lie down next to you, that's the plan, huh?" And good _God_ , it's the worst plan ever, there's no fucking way Dean'll survive it, but he'll take maybe dying _later_ over wanting to kill himself now if he looks back at Sam and Sammy's maybe crying again, crying after just fucking _kissing_ him, and, hell, maybe Sam'll fall asleep by the time Dean's done and Dean can just, like, pat his arm and retreat to a respectable distance and have a couple of beers while hating himself for not trusting himself to be able to pick his kid up and move him to a clean bed, much less take a _nap_ beside him. That's not a good plan, either, it's a fucking miserable plan compared to the one that lets him hang out with Sam, _touch_ Sam, have Sam smile at him, but that's fucking life when you're Dean Winchester. He'll deal.

"Don't want you to go," Sam says against his cheek, and the pressure of his knee against Dean's back seems to increase slightly, though he might just be imagining that. Wishful thinking. "'m fine. You don't mind."

Which is true, and Sam needs to stop getting right to the fucking point with these cutting arguments of his, Jesus, he'd make one hell of a lawyer. "I, I know, I don't, 'course I don't mind, no way, I'd fucking kiss you an--" and he cuts himself off, because _fuck_ yes, it's true, but it _shouldn't_ be, probably, he's pretty sure, there should be fucking _boundaries_ and he should have them and he sure as hell shouldn't be telling Sam that he _doesn't_ , especially right now when he knows exactly what Sam will do with that information and he knows exactly how easily he'll let himself be convinced, _did you say it 'cause you're a fucking moron who doesn't think before opening his mouth or did you say it 'cause you_ knew _that, Winchester, you asshole_. He swallows. "But, dude, you're not fine, and I do mind that, 'cause I want you to be okay, right? You feel fine, and I am seriously fucking happy about that, but you're not gonna later if we don't take-- if we don't finish this now, okay? We just gotta get it done and then we can do something, uh, else." He could end this right here, could end it immediately, could let go of Sam, ease him back down on to the bed and get up, step back, and it would feel like fucking torture, except for how he has no fucking idea what torture's like, not the way Sam does. He's pretty sure Sammy's resting all of his weight on him, leaning on him entirely like he completely and absolutely trusts Dean, so easing him down wouldn't be a problem, it's not like he'd resist, and that's exactly fucking why he's not going to do that. Sam _trusts_ him.

And, okay, yeah, maybe it's also, a little bit, because making out with Sam automatically makes a day one of the best ever, and making out with Sam when he's so clearly into it, when he is actually able to _ask Dean to make it keep happening_ , when Sam kissed him _first_ , just makes it that much more fucking stellar; Dean's not exactly in a hurry to get his ass elsewhere. He'd gladly do this the rest of the day and all fucking night, if he didn't think that would lead to a situation he'd just as soon avoid having to explain to Sam, a situation he might rather die than have to avoid to Sam, and maybe, definitely, absolutely, that's really fucking drama-queen of him, but right now, he could not care less. And, of course, if Sam didn't need the rest of the medical care Dean'd promised him in not-so-many words. Though if Sam _didn't_ need it, then they wouldn't be in this oh-so-fucking-tempting position in the first place, because Sam would never, ever let him get this close -- or, well, he would, of course he _would_ , but he sure as hell wouldn't ask for it, and there's no fucking way Dean would do it otherwise.

Just because he thinks about it sometimes doesn't mean that he would. It _doesn't_ , he tells himself. It fucking _doesn't_ , and it's not his fault that he loves Sam; anybody would love him, if they knew him, all they've gotta do is fucking _look_ at him. He doesn't understand how anybody _couldn't_ , how anybody could do the things that they _have_ done, how they could have looked at Sam and fucking done that, done _any_ of it, Sam's a _kid_ , not some fucking monster they hauled in after it tore through some preschool, and someday Dean's going to make every single one of those assholes pay, and it's going to fucking _hurt_ , and it is not going to be quick.

Sam sighs, _sighs_ , and it sounds like exasperation, it sounds like a promise: this is what Dean will get, if he does this right, if he takes care of Sammy okay. _Better_ than okay, as best as he can. "You keep saying that," Sam says in this voice like Dean just told him he couldn't play with a puppy anymore, this goddamn _desolate_ voice, which is at the same time fucking miraculous because it's _not_ his scared voice, not that broken, lost heartstomp of a no-hope-left-in-the-world voice, not the one he used when he wondered aloud if Dean would come back, and God, Dean could go his whole life without ever hearing that one again. _Please_.

"And I keep meaning it," Dean says to the floral-printed comforter, because if he says it to Sam, there's no way he's going to be able to keep from trying to make him believe it, however he can, whatever it takes. "We got the hard part done, the rest's just, like, clean-up, it'll be over before you know it. Why don't you, uh, close your eyes, that'll make it seem like it's going faster."

"I still wanna watch you," Sam says, and Dean lets himself turn his head at that, because it's just a minor fucking miracle, is all; he lets himself look back at Sam, into his _eyes_ , and, fuck, he'd thought the way Sam was looking at him before was bad. Huge pleading eyes, sure, times like a hundred, and is he fucking _pouting_? That cannot be deliberate. There is no way in hell that's deliberate, if it even _is_ a pout.

God, Sam's driving him crazy. But, like, in a good way. As always, because even bad days with Sam are good 'cause they've got Sam in them. This is just -- a new kind of crazy. A kind of crazy that's making him think that maybe letting the water run in the bathroom a few minutes longer than is strictly necessary to get it warm again might not be a bad idea, and maybe that thought he had about punching a fucking wall might come in handy, too.

He's been sleeping with people, fucking them, having sex with them, whatever, it's never been love, for goddamn _years_ and he can't ever remember wanting somebody the way he wants Sam. Which makes sense, because nobody else has ever _meant_ this much to him, they've never mattered like this, but the fact that it makes sense doesn't make it any goddamn easier not to give in, ease Sam back on to the mattress, all right, and follow him right the hell down. It wouldn't even be NC-17, necessarily. It could be, just. PG-13. Light R. Kissing, making out, Sam's shirt's already like halfway off, and _fuck_.

"I'll be back in a sec," he says, words that at once hurt to say and sound like they're coming from somebody else. He _makes_ himself guide Sam back down, make sure he's resting on the pillow so his neck won't hurt, and how the hell did Sam's eyes get _wider_ , that should not have even been _possible_. He smiles, even though it feels tight and desperate and not reassuring in the least, but what the fuck's a smile ever done for Sam anyway, Dean smiles at him all the time and it doesn't mean a _thing_ , just means he's gonna have to put up with more of Dean's bullshit for a little while longer, and that's not what Sam needs right now, Sam needs something he can hold, something he can focus on, something he can _believe_ , and so, yeah, he lets himself kiss Sam again, because Sammy likes that. Once, he tells himself. Twice. That's _all_. His mouth to Sam's, but only for a second, and then his lips to the curve of Sam's nose like something out of a damn chick flick but _whatever_ , and then, okay, his mouth against Sam's forehead, but that doesn't even count. It's, like, checking his temperature. Which is fine, incidentally. _Warm_ , almost hot, but then, Dean's pretty sure his is, too, and he strokes a hand through Sam's hair and that's the last time, he swears. It _is_ , even though Sam shifts beneath his fingers, leans up into the touch again. "I swear, Sammy. And you'll be able to see me the whole time, I'm not going far, not even gonna leave the room."

\--

He'd thought he'd be lucky if Dean kissed him one more time today, but Dean surpasses everything; Dean is the kindest person in the universe, the kindest, best person ever even _imaginable_ , because he _keeps_ kissing Sam, and he kissed Sam _back_ and it was so bright and so beautiful and _Dean_ that Sam lost track of time, lost track of everything but Dean, everything that didn't matter. Dean might have been kissing him for _hours_ , Sam's not sure, and Dean didn't even seem to mind the noises Sam made, noises that he didn't even know monsters _could_ make (and maybe they can't, in camp, maybe it's only in the real world that they can, or maybe it's only _him_ and only because it's _Dean_ ), or how every time he breathed he said Dean's name and he couldn't help it, he didn't mean to, it just _happened_. Dean didn't even seem to mind the way that Sam's weird fucked-up monster body reacted this time, how automatically, without even thinking about it, he moved one of his legs, let it rest against Dean's back as though to keep Dean there, to keep Dean close, maybe even to draw him _closer_.

Dean said he had to go do other stuff, stuff to make Sam _okay_ , but he's _already_ okay, better than okay, _incredible_. He cannot remember ever being better than this, ever feeling better than this, Dean having just kissed him again, lightly but kissed all the same, Dean smiling down at him now, Dean's knee against his side, Dean's hands behind his back and behind his neck because he's so _good_ that he didn't want Sam to have to lie down all by himself, he wanted to _help_. Even though being damaged is Sam's fault because he's a monster and such a stupid one that he forgot what Dean taught him, what Dean _gave_ him, and so he deserves all of the consequences because he _earned_ them and maybe they will help him remember better next time, Dean doesn't seem to _care_ , doesn't _want_ Sam to have to deal with any of the consequences at all. Not just the one that would have maybe broken Sam forever and left Dean with a dead monster body to deal with, Sam can understand how Dean would have wanted to fix him so that he can be useful again in the future, but even the pain, the fucking wrenching impossible agony that was, too, what Sam earned, Dean wanted that to go _away_ , he wanted Sam to not have to feel it at all, even though that meant he used some of the drugs meant for reals, meant for _Dean_ to not have to feel pain, on a _monster_.

Because Dean doesn't want Sam to hurt at all, because Sam's life and whether or not Sam is happy means so much to him that when Sam hurts, Dean looks like _he's_ hurt, too. Because Dean is _amazing_ , kind and caring and beautiful and brave and everything that a monster _isn't_ ; Dean is light where Sam is dark and Dean doesn't even seem to _notice_.

Sam smiles back up at him, aware of every single point of contact, all of the ways in which Dean is touching him, even if they keep blurring together whenever he can't make himself focus, whenever he gets distracted by the fact that it's _Dean_ so close, distracted by how fucking _brilliant_ Dean is, and how _good_. And then Dean moves, and Sam feels his own knee, distant as it is, fall away from Dean's back as he stands up. "I'm just gonna be in the bathroom, okay," Dean says. "See, just, just over there," and he's pointing, except in order for Sam to see what he's pointing _at_ , he'd have to look away from Dean, and there's no way he's going to do that. Unless Dean makes him, unless Dean gives him an order, and Dean never, ever gives him orders, so he's safe.

"You'll come back," Sam says, which sounds like an order itself, but Dean won't mind; Dean never minds. Dean never gets mad at him, never gets angry because of _Sam_ ; he only ever gets sad, and only then for a little while, until Sam can make him smile again, or until he thinks about something that makes him happy, like his car or cherry pie or all of the people he's saved from monsters. Monsters that aren't like Sam, because Dean says that Sam's not a monster at all. Sam doesn't understand how that could be true, how the ASC could have made such a terrible mistake, but even if it _was_ a mistake, it doesn't matter, because he fit in well enough with the other monsters that nobody could see any difference.

Nobody but Dean, and Dean doesn't _know_.

"I swear to fucking God, Sam," Dean says, and he looks so sad then that Sam has to say okay, has to nod as much as he can, even as he marvels at the thought that Dean might be waiting for his _permission_. He should never have power over Dean, not in any way; monsters should never have power over reals, but Dean says that he is not a monster, and Dean's not just any real, he's _Dean_. And Sam is his, and they are both Winchesters, and sometimes when Sam thinks about that, it's like he was never once bound with chains behind those barbed-wire fences, like he never once knew the feel of leather wrapped tight around his neck. Sometimes he thinks _Sam Winchester_ and it's almost enough to let him forget everything that came before, everything other than Dean.

"I'll miss you," he says, because he does, whenever Dean is not around, whenever Dean's out of his sight or out for a run or out for the night, out for a few hours because he needs to remember what it's like to spend time with reals. Sometimes the motel room is filled with music, then, the most beautiful things Sam's ever heard, more alive than he'd thought songs could ever be, and as fantastic as the planets he's read about; he doesn't miss Dean _as_ acutely, then, but he misses him all the same, a hollow-bone ache, autumn-night chill that's only ever made right when Dean comes back through the door, just as it is when Dean looks over at him like he just wants to see Sam because looking at Sam makes him happy, or when he pulls the blankets up over both of them and pulls Sam close and tells him to get some sleep, they got a long drive ahead of them in the morning.

"Me, too, Sammy," Dean says, and his voice sounds the way Sam's thoughts do, and then he moves and he's out of Sam's frame of vision and Sam tries to turn his head so that he can follow him, watch where he's going, _see_ him, but his head is so tired, his body exhausted. He doesn't remember being this tired when Dean was kissing him, and he hopes very much that Dean will come back soon to do that again. Dean said he would, he thinks. Their duffels on the other bed, the only thing that he can see that belongs to Dean, waver in and out of clarity, and there is a noise like a waterfall in the distance, and he knows that it must be the faucet in the bathroom, just as he thinks Dean said it would be, where Dean said he was going, but it sounds so far away and it reminds him of the ocean, the distant tide. Someday, maybe Dean will take him to Niagara Falls; Dean's promised to take him anywhere he wants to go, anywhere his baby can get them.

"Remember when you took me to see the ocean?" he says, and he cannot tell if his voice will carry, if Dean will be able to hear him, but Dean _always_ hears him. He remembers that from before, just as he remembers that Dean loves him, maybe more than anything. "It was the biggest thing I'd ever seen, Dean. It covers more than seventy percent of the world, did you know that? I want to see it again. You said it's warmer some other places, you said there's fish the color of the sky."

"'Course I remember, Sammy," Dean says, and the rush of water stops. "Never gonna forget it, dude." He sounds like he's coming closer, footsteps bringing him back to Sam, but Sam still can't see him.

"I kissed you," he says, and closes his eyes so that he won't have to see Dean's absence; that makes it easier, too, to remember, remember the salt of Dean's mouth and the warm, gritty sand on his skin and the heat of the Impala at his back. "I kissed you and you weren't mad and I felt like I couldn't stand up anymore and I knew that you loved me. I remembered it, I mean. I think I knew it before, too, I just didn't have the words for it. There's lots of words for that, I read about them. There's enlightenment and epiphany and revelation and I can't, there's others, too."

"Aw, Jesus, Sammy," Dean says, but he doesn't sound upset, doesn't sound angry like he does other times when he says that. He sounds even closer, now, close enough that Sam can open his eyes, and he does; he sees denim, the frayed-white pocket-edge, and the dull brass-toned rivet, and blinks, adjusts his vision as best as he can so that he can take in the rest of Dean as he settles back down onto the bed, beside him. "I swear, Sam, you can kiss me any damn time you want, and I will never, ever get mad, okay?" It sounds like there's something wrong with his voice again, but not in a bad way, so maybe it isn't _wrong_ , it's just _different_. It sounds like he's breathless, but not like he's being choked, and that's important.

"Right now?" Sam says. Dean likes when he asks questions; Dean likes when he pushes what he thinks are limits and what Dean says are him being so fucking brave and the rest of the world being full of assholes. Dean likes when he tries new things, and he thinks this might count, because even though he's kissed Dean before, it's only been a few times. He wants to wrap his arms around Dean and pull him down on to the bed; that would be something new, but he doesn't think he can make himself move, not even for that, and when did he get so tired, and what if he tried anyway and it worked but it made Dean want to leave again?

"Uh, gimme a second, though, okay?" Dean's got something in his hand again, a small white cloth. A washcloth, Sam recognizes. The same one he had before. _Is_ it the same one he had before? Time seems strange all of a sudden and again, fluid and unable to be trusted, or maybe it's just him, maybe _he_ can't be trusted, but he thinks that's wrong because _Dean_ trusts him. He'd close his eyes again if only it wouldn't mean missing out on Dean. "Wanna get this done. Third time's the charm, huh?"

Sam's not entirely sure what he means by that, is still trying to work through what he means by _charm_ \-- is this a ritual, was he meant to be paying attention to something else, something other than Dean and remembering not to be sad, does Dean expect him to know a spell, to have something memorized, did he tell Dean he would and forget because he's a stupid monster and the drugs make it hard to think and now he's too tired to even remember what kind of spell Dean might have wanted, _I'm sorry_ \-- when Dean presses the washcloth, damp and warm, gently to the side of his face, and he _remembers_ this, remembers this from being sick, remembers how good Dean was to him then, too. "Just gonna try to clean off some a' the blood," Dean says, just as gently, just as softly. "That's all."

"It's on you, too," Sam says, trying very hard to focus on what he's saying, to focus on what _needs_ to be said, and not on the feeling of the cloth against his face, on the feeling of Dean wiping away filthy monster-sweat and monster-blood and monster-tears, things Sam forgot to worry about but that Dean remembered and hadn't minded even when they were kissing, Dean had even _said_ that he didn't mind and maybe this is what he meant by that, and that Dean wants to make sure Sam doesn't have to feel anymore, even though they were Sam's fault in the first place. "On your face, Dean, and your neck, I touched you and I got you dirty, somebody might see."

"Hey," Dean says, and there's a hitch in his voice, but he doesn't stop touching Sam, smoothing the cloth across his cheek, across his forehead, running his other hand briefly through Sam's hair, pushing it back out of his face. "No, you didn't, Sammy. This wasn't you, okay? This is what happens when you're patchin' up somebody you care about, man. You get a little messy. It happens. No big deal. It washes off, right?"

"Somebody might see," Sam says again, because it's _important_ , it matters, _Dean_ matters. Because it might wash off, but it might not wash off _in time_ , and what if someone sees before then, sees how much Dean cares about him, how much Dean loves him, what if, what if, what if; and what if this time it doesn't come off and Dean's marked forever by him, marked forever by a monster and what if someone decides that makes him a monster, too, and they _can't_ , Sam won't let them, they can't take Dean away, but he is _so_ tired, it's hard even to keep his eyes open, and what if he doesn't do it right, what if he fails, fails Dean and--

"Nah," Dean says, confident and _sure_ and still quiet and gentle and kind and how does he _do_ that, how can he be so many things at once, and why is he so nice to _Sam_. "It's just you and me, kiddo, okay? Nobody else here. And if somebody comes to the door, I'll tell 'em exactly what I told you and you told me, right? I, I was patchin' up somebody I love, making sure they're okay."

"Shouldn't believe a monster," Sam says; Dean should _know_ that, know that no matter what, beneath everything, Sam's a monster and a freak and he pauses, his thoughts stuttering out, and blinks, because Dean is going blurry again, and the warm cloth against his skin feels amazing, as does the heat seeping from Dean's hip into his own body, and he can't think past that, for a moment, past how fucking incredible it feels.

"I don't." Dean's grin is crooked, and Sam can't see right, can't see close enough, but he knows that the skin around Dean's eyes will be crinkled and that his eyes will be light and unhurt, because Dean only grins like that when it's real, when he's happy, when he means it. "I believe you. And you're not a monster, right? You're Sam, my, uh, my Sam, right?"

"Your Sam," he says. His eyelids are so heavy, impossibly heavy. "Don't wanna sleep."

"I know," Dean says, and pauses with the cloth still resting on Sam's face, leans in a little like he wants to make sure Sam sees him, like he wants to make sure Sam _can_ , and how did he know, how does he always know? "I -- look, we still got some stuff to do, right? Finish up here, get you a clean shirt? I swear, Sammy, you close your eyes now, take a nap for a few minutes, and as soon as I get you comfortable, I'll wake you up."

"You promise," he says, muzzily but distinct; he needs to know. He needs to know, and Dean never breaks his promises. Never, never, never. "Dean, you promise." It should be a question. He _means_ for it to be a question, but it comes out wrong, so quiet and so much like a plea, needy and desperate monster-cry.

Dean swallows. "I promise," he says, and Sam feels himself smile again, feels his own hand close around Dean's without knowing how that happened, how he managed to do it, and is absurdly, distantly grateful for that monster-reflex.

"'Kay," he says, and stops trying to keep his eyes open, lets them fall closed instantly, because Dean's hand is warm in his, and Dean is not pulling away, and Dean _promised_. "You never lie to me, Dean. You're the only person. I love you."

\--


	4. Chapter 4

"I love you," Sam says, sleep-slurred and already dream-blurred, and his eyelids flutter once more before slipping closed, and his hand around Dean's goes slack, and Dean takes a deep breath, a deep breath that feels like it might be the first he's taken in hours, since he first heard the bitch growl and turned too slow in response, since he saw Sam with his hands in her fur and then saw him crumple, saw Sam on his back beneath the wolf like some fucking sacrifice, surrendered for Dean, in that goddamned fucking field. But Sam's alive, and breathing; his hand is warm around Dean's own, and he is safe, and he is _happy_ , genuinely fucking happy and unafraid now, and Dean hadn't known what he'd been missing, before this. Hadn't known how good it could be, how good Sam could have it, how easily he could smile and fucking _talk_ and fucking _touch_ Dean, no hesitation at all, no questions, no _doubts_ , like he knows exactly what he means to Dean, exactly what Dean would do for him and exactly what Dean would let him do, if he wanted to.

"Aw, _Sammy_ ," Dean says, lets himself say, regret and adoration and yeah, love, Sam was fucking right about that, bleeding through, because Sam is asleep and will not hear; Sam's breathing deeply and evenly and without even a hint of nightmares or panic, and if Dean could have him like this always, he would. If he could make life this easy for him every day, the way it _should_ be for him, he would do it in an instant, a heartbeat, no matter the cost, as long as he could pay it himself. As long as it wouldn't take anything from Sam; the kid's lost too goddamn much (and isn't _that_ the understatement of the century) already, no matter the way Sam's looked at him as though he's all that matters, as though the sight of Dean is all he needs in order to be happy, in order to _live_ , as though the sight of Dean is all he knows of _love_ , and that's why he said it, Dean knows. 'cause Dean _is_ all he knows, and he's high anyway and right now everything probably feels like the best fucking whatever it is in the world. Despite the fact that his arm got torn _open_ and though Dean's got him stitched up now, the washcloth in his hand is stained red with Sammy's blood, the blood that was all over his _face_ and Dean _knows_ what it's like to be on painkillers, sure, but it's never been like _this_ , not for him. It's felt great, yeah, like everything was gonna be okay always, but this is something else entirely.

This is fucking _joy_ , those times when Sam's not crying, and once the drugs wear off, Sammy's going to be scared and small and hesitant again, and that's going to hurt so much more for these scant hours of release, of reprieve.

But he promised Sam he'd wake him up, he reminds himself, and he fucking _will_. Because Sam wants him to. Because Sam wants to watch him, wants to _kiss_ him, and he'd do anything for Sam, that goes without question, without saying. Even that fucking awful promise Sam asked him to make, he'd made it, and he'd keep it, too, if there were ever a chance that it'd come true. He'd do anything for Sam, and he promised this, too, and so it's not selfish, waking Sam back up, wanting to see him smile, not if it's what Sam wants, too. And he fucking will _not_ let it go beyond that, even if it means he has to distract Sam with something else, no matter what _he_ wants, himself, because it's going to be hard enough already, looking at his kid when the drugs wear off, and more importantly, _most_ importantly, just because Sam likes being touched, likes being kissed, doesn't mean Sam's gonna be okay with it later, with _this_ , with what's already fucking happened, if it turns out he does remember any of it.

When he slides his hand out from Sam's, Sam doesn't stir; he looks absolutely at peace, lying there on the comforter with his shirt stained and ragged, and Dean wonders what he's dreaming about, if he's dreaming at all. He wants suddenly nothing more than to lie down beside him, just like he promised, to hold Sam until morning, or until he wakes, and feel his body utterly at ease against Dean's own. He could fall asleep right now, he really could; the adrenaline comedown's doing a number on his system, sending him into crash mode now that he knows Sammy's okay, Sammy's gonna _be_ okay, now that he knows he's not gonna have to worry about Sammy kissing him right now, or not so much about that as about what his body might do in response. He _could_ , but he promised Sammy otherwise, and besides, he still needs to get the kid into a clean shirt, get his shoes off, get him onto the other bed. Make him comfortable, as comfortable as possible, considering that Dean nearly got him killed.

Sam doesn't even move, his breathing doesn't change in the slightest, when Dean reaches for the top button of his shirt, and Dean tries very hard not to think about what he's doing, not to think about the fact that he's undressing Sam and that if Sam were to wake right now, he would probably have no goddamn problem with kissing Dean, taking advantage of how close they are already, just like he did before; no goddamn problem with letting Dean pull him close in return, or guide him back against the pillows. _Drugged_ , Dean reminds himself. The kid's fucking drugged, and the only people who get off on fucking around with drugged, helpless, _vulnerable_ kids are fucking _perverts_ , and Dean might be an asshole, but he's not -- not one of them.

He's not, even though the way Sam sighs in his sleep as Dean's fingers catch at the next buttons does something dark and hot to all of the nerves he's trying not to think about right now, all the nerves he's trying not to acknowledge. He's _not_ , even though the way Sam's mouth opens slightly, only for a second and just in his sleep, just like, like _normal_ , makes Dean's own mouth go dry. And then the buttons are done and Sam's shirt is open and Jesus _fuck_ , those scars. He tells himself he has to look away to grab a clean shirt; he tells himself he isn't grateful to do so, that he isn't flinching away from the damage that has been done to his boy--no, to his _Sam_ , what the fuck, to his kid, that's all. Sam endured it, and Dean will make himself witness that; it's just that right now, he needs to find Sammy a clean shirt so that he won't get cold and so that he won't be scared when Dean wakes him up again.

Dean's own duffel is closest; he can reach it without having to get up, and that's just fucking _efficient_ , is all, it's not that he's got some stupid chick thing about not wanting to leave Sam's side, because Sam's asleep, right? So it's not like he'd even know. This is just -- easier, because what if the movement did happen to wake Sam up, and then he'd have to tell Sam that he wasn't done yet, that Sam should go back to sleep, and that would make Sam sad again, plus the fact that Sam'd wake up half-undressed and that might scare him, 'cause he won't know _why,_ won't see Dean doing exactly what he said he was going to do ( _just_ what he said he was going to do and _no more_ ) and understand. That's all this is. He reaches into his bag and comes up with his rumpled sleep shirt, faded old too-large Zeppelin concert tee Dad found in this Salvation Army outside of Dallas and tried to hide from Dean and Dean pretended not to see, because it was gonna be his birthday present a couple weeks later, and what the hell, Sam deserves better, Sam deserves something clean and brand-new and something that doesn't smell like the inside of Dean's duffel, like the inside of Dean's car, like _Dean_ , but it's not like there's a lot of options; laundry's not been so much a priority, lately. And Sammy probably won't even notice.

"Just gonna lift you up a little," Dean says, even though it's stupid because Sam's asleep, he _knows_ it's stupid, and what the fuck _else_ would he be doing, and slips one hand between the pillow and the skews of Sam's tangled hair, slides his palm back around Sam's neck, and uses his other hand to lift Sam's shoulders and tug the ruined plaid out of the way. Sam still doesn't fucking weigh enough, and as soon as Dean wakes him up, he's gonna ask Sammy what he wants to eat, because maybe Sam'll give him an answer, now, with how he's fucking _talking_ and all, not even stuttering, just beaming up at Dean like Dean is all light, ever, fucking brightest thing in his universe, and like Dean is undoing all that's ever been done to him, and no matter what he says, how goddamn impossible or ridiculous, Dean's gonna get it for him. Even if it's that fucking weird garlic chicken pizza he likes so much, which is fucking gross, god, who even came _up_ with that, but Sam likes it and that's what matters, and it's a hell of a lot safer to be thinking about that than to be thinking about the fact that he's got his hands on Sam's back and Sam's not moving away, not pulling away, Sam is actually fucking _leaning closer_ , even in his sleep, like even though he's stoned to the point of unconsciousness, he wants to be close to Dean.

Jesus fucking Christ, Sam's going to be the end of him. And it's not like that's a surprise, he just never expected it to be like this. Heartbreak, sure, he was prepared for that, or as prepared as anybody ever can be, which is to say not at all but for the expectation of _one day_ \--, but _this_ , this is something else entirely, and he's not sure he has the words for it. Not like Sam did, like Sam always does, how fucking _smart_ he is, Dean's kid; this isn't _revelation_ or _epiphany_ or any of that shit, this is something new and utterly different. _Miracle_ might be close, if he believed in that crap.

He has to lower Sam back down onto the bed in order to grab the t-shirt, take his hands off Sam's skinny, scared, fucking _enduring_ body, Sam's body that should make Dean angry for what's been done to it, to _him_ , all that pain inflicted, and oh, it _does_ , it fucking does, but it also makes Dean's breath catch and his cheeks flush and god, he should not, should not, should not be getting hot over his kid like this, now or ever. He has to let go of Sam for a second, just as long as it takes to pull the shirt closer, but after _that_. God, it's fucking agony. Having Sam pressed up against him, chest flush up against Dean's own, and yeah, Dean's so busy trying to work Sam's arms through the sleeves, get Sam's head through the collar, that he doesn't have time to focus on the texture of the scars on the skin that he's touching, but apparently his brain is still able to register, to _focus_ , on the fact that it's Sam, Sam all warm and pliable and sleepy in his arms, Sam's head falling forward against his collarbone when Dean reaches behind him to tug the shirt down so that Sammy's back won't get cold, Sam's hair brushing up under his chin, and he really, _really_ fucking needs to not be thinking about how Sam said he wanted to kiss him again. To kiss him again _right now_. To kiss him again as soon as possible.

"Okay, kiddo," he says when he's got Sam lowered back down to the bed once more, because not talking to Sam is _weird_ even if Sam's not listening, not gonna answer in a whole different way than the bad days, when Sam is _asleep_ , and, _fuck_ , he should have stuck with another one of the button-downs, risked Sam waking up, left Sam alone for a minute no matter how damned much he didn't _want_ to, because in baggy jeans and Dean's stupid-beloved band shirt and that ridiculous hair, Sam looks like nothing more than a fucking heartbreaker of a kid, sixteen years old and his whole life ahead of him; if Dean ignores the scars on his arms (and how the _fuck_ could he ignore the scars on his arms), he could be . . . he could be anybody. He could be who he was meant to be, somebody who didn't grow up in a fucking concentration camp, only to get out and be given a life where, yeah, he's not fucking _tortured_ , but he's still gotta carry a gun and risk getting his fucking heart torn out and Dean asks the impossible of him on a goddamn daily basis.

But. _I love you_ , he said, and Dean's going to focus on that right now, even if it -- even if it's not what it sounded like, even if that's not how he meant it (and of _course_ it isn't, God, Dean _knows_ that, okay, he's just letting himself believe, for a second, that's _all_ ).

He makes himself get back up, then, because he can't delay it any longer, there's nothing left to do, and lifts the duffels out of the way, sets them on the floor between the beds, and then he turns back to Sam. It's not difficult to lift him again, lift him entirely, to slide one arm beneath his legs and the other beneath his back, to cradle his head against Dean's shoulder; it's not hard at _all_ , and it's over all too fucking quickly, too, because then he's easing Sam down onto the other bed, settling his head on the clean pillows and straightening out his legs, and _fuck_ , Dean needs to stop touching him. He's had his hands all over Sam today, and just because Sam doesn't mind, just because it's been fucking _necessary_ , or at least most of it has and the rest has been because Sam _wanted_ it, Sam kissed Dean all on his own -- just because it's been _necessary_ doesn't mean it's been a good idea; he's going to pay for it tonight, and that's only going to make it worse for Sam, Sam who doesn't want him to leave, who wants Dean to fucking lie down _beside_ him, Jesus Christ.

First things first, though, and that means he doesn't have to think about tonight, not yet. Triage. He can do that, and he settles near the foot of the bed, hands on Sam's sneakers, undoing the laces. When he's done, he'll wake Sam up, of course, because he promised, and he'll see if he can get the kid to eat something, and then maybe Sam'll want to curl up beneath the blankets and go to sleep again, 'cause he sure as hell went out fast this time, and Dean can stay on top of them. That'd be holding up his end of the deal, right? He'd be next to Sam, like he promised, and there'd just be a -- barrier. And Sam might not even notice. Hell, he might not even wake up tonight, not until the meds wear off, no matter what Dean tries, and, sure, that'd be a fucking _bitch_ , because Dean wants so badly to watch him smile again, but maybe it'd be for the best. He'll sleep this off, and Dean will. Dean will.

Dean will have a couple drinks and keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn't have any nightmares, and savor this for as long as he can. Savor the sight of Sam _sleeping_ , actually sleeping, and if he's fucking exhausted in the morning from keeping vigil, what the fuck, it'll have been worth it, even if it could have been better, even if the whiskey tonight will taste like selfish regret and the coffee in the morning will be bitter with what-could-have-been.

And then Sam mumbles something, then Sam mumbles something that sounds like _Dean_ , and turns his head a little, presses his face against the pillow, and how the fuck can the kid own so much of Dean's heart, how can he own Dean's _whole_ heart and not even act like he knows it, most of the time, how can he _not_ know it, not unless he's fucking stoned out of his mind, how can that even be _possible_.

"I got you, Sammy," he says quietly, just in case Sam will hear, just in case Sam really did say _Dean_ ; even if he's only dreaming, he shouldn't be lost, he should know that Dean will always hear him, will always find him, will always, always come back for him. Sam mumbles something else, then, indistinct and lost into the pillow, and Dean pauses with one hand on Sam's ankle, exposed where the hem of his jeans has slid up, caught against the comforter; he allows himself that, because his other hand is still caught up in the cats-cradled laces of one of Sam's navy-blue high-tops, canvas the color of the predawn sky, not the bright firefighter's red that Dean remembers wanting when he was a kid, so much younger than Sam is now, so much younger than Sam has maybe _ever_ been, except for maybe in those few, _so_ damned few, years before he got taken or dumped or _however_ the fuck he ended up in that motherfucking camp. But Sam falls silent after that, and still, and Dean slips his shoes off like something out of a goddamn fairy tale in reverse.

"Hey," he says, and lets himself straighten a little, lets himself move once more to Sam's side; he _promised_ , he tells himself as he edges next to Sam on the bed and the warm weight of Sam's body settles against his side with the shift of the mattress, Dean's added weight. He promised. He'll give this his best shot, and if Sammy still wants to sleep, that'll be okay. It won't be okay, really, but it'll be what's best for his kid, and that will make it okay in the most important way, more than anything else, more than his own stupid _feelings_ or whatever. "Hey, Sammy," and maybe it's quiet, maybe it's nothing more than slightly-more-than-a-whisper, but sue him if he doesn't want Sam to wake up all of a sudden, all right? If he wants Sam to wake up slowly, if Sam _is_ going to wake up tonight; if he wants Sam to wake up easily and not-scared and already aware of where he is, already aware that Dean kept his promise at last.

And, yeah, maybe part of it's that he's not in a _hurry_ to wake Sam up, much as he wants to see Sam smile; he's not exactly in a hurry to have Sam look at him and want to kiss him and say the kind of things that make Dean's life worth living, because Dean's not sure how much longer he'll be able to let that happen before he has to shut Sam down, as gently as possible, sure, but _fuck_ , it's going to hurt him, hurt _both_ of them, now that Sam's actually _able_ to ask, _is_ asking, and what if Sam remembers that part, what if he thinks about it tomorrow and decides it means he should never try again, no matter what Dean says to the contrary, no matter how much better he gets, _they_ get, what if that's one of the things Sam remembers the same way he remembers every-fucking-thing _else_ Dean says.

And, yeah, maybe another part of it's that having Sam pressed all sleepy-warm against him is kind of fucking amazing, and it doesn't fucking matter that Dean's about to fall off the edge of the mattress because he's not going to shove Sam over, it doesn't fucking matter that he's got like one-eighth of a corner of a pillow and that's it; what matters is that he's lying next to Sam at _last_ , and Sam's eyes are still closed but he lifts his face from where it's pressed into the pillow and turns towards Dean, dream-slow motion, and he _sighs_ , his chest rising and falling slowly beneath the grey-black cotton and no, Dean is _not_ going to let himself rest a hand on Sam's chest, hand over his heart, that's fucking _not_ going to happen, okay, and then Sam's head comes to rest against Dean's shoulder, smooth easy slide that Dean didn't see coming at _all_ , and fuck, that's it, Dean's not gonna be moving for the rest of the night. He lets himself lift a hand, though, and push some of Sam's hair out of his face so that it won't poke him in the eye when he does wake up, and if his knuckles maybe trail along Sam's hairline for a second or two longer than is strictly necessary, it's not like anybody's gonna know. He'll just console himself with that, with this moment of possibly-unnecessary contact, and with Sam's body stretched out against the length of his, all lax and languid and not fucking _tense_ , and, and that'll be enough. It's more than he'd thought he'd get, after all, and it's one fucking hell of a ton more than he deserves.

"You came back," Sam says into his shoulder, words muffled into hardly more than a whisper, and for a second Dean thinks he imagined them, or that maybe Sam's dreaming after all, dreaming and talking in his sleep the way he does with nightmares, but then Sam opens his eyes and angles his head so that he can look up at Dean from beneath his eyelashes, and if he angled his head a little further, craned his neck ever so slightly, he'd be able to press his mouth to Dean's own neck, breathe hot against Dean's skin; from where he is now, he could tug the collar of Dean's shirt askew for leverage, he could turn onto his side and get an arm around Dean, throw a leg over Dean's hip as Dean got his hands up underneath his shirt, sleep-soft fabric loose and untucked as though it were made for this, chosen for this, and fuck, no, it was _not_ , it absolutely fucking was not, Dean _swears_ , honest to whoever. He could touch Dean all he wanted as Dean pulled him down closer, skin to skin and nothing but breath and bloodsong between them, and _no_ , that is not a thought that Dean can have, now or maybe ever. _Certainly_ not now, though, proximity being what it is.

"Yeah, I promised, right?" He says it quietly, only a shade louder than Sam's own voice, and realizes belatedly that his knuckles are still resting against Sam's face, but when he moves them, goes to keep his hand to his fucking _self_ , Sam makes this noise that, if Dean didn't _know_ Sam, didn't know everything he's been through, he might've been able to call the saddest goddamn noise in the history of fucking _ever_ , so he leaves them there. Not like it's exactly _difficult_ , but, hell, he needs to not mean this much to Sam. Though maybe it's not so much about _him_ as it is about the fact that Sam's dazed and it's not like he's exactly got a fucking surplus of memories of being taken care of like this, not like he's got a fuckload of a lot of experience with being _cuddled_ (and, yeah, that's what this is, no way around it, and if it were anybody but Sam, Dean'd just as soon shoot himself in the foot than admit it, or better yet, shoot whoever fucking _said_ it), so this is all . . . new for him. New and reassuring, and Dean's a nice warm body who's not pulling away, and maybe that's it. That's all this is.

Well, it totally _could_ be, if he forgets every time Sam asked for him, every time Sam asked if he'd come back, the part where Sam said that he'd figured Dean out, figured it _all_ out, he figured out that Dean loves him, and, yeah, that's everything, that's big enough to be called _all_.

That, and the part where Sam said that he loves him, too. Even if Sam doesn't, didn't, mean it in the same way, mean it in the way that Dean does and always will. Sam said he loves Dean back, and, fuck, Dean's gonna buy him a beach house, if the ocean means that much to him, if it makes him happy, if that's what it takes for him to remember what he means to Dean, to remember that Dean loves him.

"Said I could kiss you," Sam says, and pulls back a little at last, pulls back so that his words aren't muffled, so that his mouth isn't touching Dean anymore, so that he's not breathing heat into Dean's shoulder, so that Dean can look directly _at_ his mouth, and fuck, no, he's not meant to be doing that. Eyes, he reminds himself. _Eyes_. Look at, _into_ , Sam's _eyes_ , hazy-bright like distant fireworks, and try not to think about them falling closed, the dark sweep of his eyelashes as he shivers and arches his throat, his body, and murmurs a name, hisses a name, _Dean's_ name, as Dean's hands skim across his skin, and Dean swallows, hard.

"Yeah," he says, his voice a scrape, a raw ache, and he hopes like hell that Sam won't notice. He probably won't. After all, he just woke up, and he's still drugged, and he's still touching Dean, and he just reminded him about _kissing_ , so, yeah, odds are this isn't Sam at his most high-functioning, his most terrified, his most conditioned-into-hypervigilance. This isn't Sam at his most _Sam_ , or maybe it is, maybe it's just a different version. Whatever. He's not gonna remember this, not gonna remember the rust-rasp streak of betrayal in Dean's voice. It'll be okay. Dean hopes. "I did."

"Now?" Sam says. "You finished. You said. You _promised_ ," and Jesus _fuck_ , if Sam ever learns to do that thing with his eyes when he's _not_ hurt, if he ever learns to do it intentionally, Dean's going to be so absolutely screwed. Not that he wouldn't give the kid the world, anything he asked for, already, but he'd like to think he'd be able to at least pretend to have some say in the matter. Pretend that it's actually a _decision_ , at least a little.

"Okay," he says, and smiles, _tries_ to smile, tries not to look fucking terrified, because he can do this for Sam. He can show some fucking restraint like the goddamn adult he's meant to be. He'll let Sam kiss him for a little while, and then Sam'll get bored or distracted and go back to sleep or . . . something. Thirty seconds. He can give the kid thirty fucking _seconds_ after the lifetime of hell he's been put through, he can do that, and Sam beams up at him like Dean's just promised him fucking _everything_ , and his feet push clumsily at the comforter for leverage and Dean's hand slips off of his face and then he's got one arm around Dean, one skinny arm thrown across Dean's chest and his hand locked around Dean's side like he'll be lost if he lets go, and Dean is _not_ panicking, he's not, he's not thinking at all about what's going to come next, about how Sam can apparently read fucking _minds_ now, though really it's probably just a coincidence, Sam reaching for him. Sam touching him. Because Sam likes to do that. And he can, today, right now, and he _is_ , and that's. God. Dean doesn't even have the _words_ , except for how much he loves his kid.

"You're my favorite out of everything," Sam says into Dean's throat, and then he lifts his head to look at Dean directly and Dean can't make himself move, can't make himself _think_ , because what the hell does _that_ mean, Sam's got hundreds of favorites. Thousands. Everything's his favorite, on good days. Blue skies and grey skies and oceans and that Louis Sachar book with the cover falling off and Dean needs to get him a new copy already, artichoke hearts and ice cream and walruses and the Impala and Zeppelin and Dean's pretty sure Sam got those last two from him, so they might not count as actual Sam-favorites, but everything _else_ , God, how can Dean possibly be better than that? He's seen the way they make Sam smile, the way they can make him happy for _days_ , and, sure, sometimes he can get the kid to laugh, sometimes Sam smiles at him and it lights up everything, everything in Dean's vision, like a salt and burn at midnight, flash and spark and brilliance in the crow-black middle of nowhere, but he fucks up plenty, too, and he kinda figured that that just about balanced out. Sam forgives him, yeah, but that doesn't mean he _forgets_ , it just means that he knows Dean's kind of a fuck-up ( _kind of_ , ha, but it's hard to think of the real thing, the truth, with Sam looking at him like that, like _this_ , directly and unflinching and so goddamn _intense_ despite the meds that should've had him passed out an hour ago) and Sam's willing to work with that, accept it for now.

And then Sam's mouth is on his, vaguely-feverdry lips and the faint taste of metallic water, and he's still got an arm around Dean's chest, anchoring, anchoring them both maybe, and his other one's somehow next to Dean's head on the pillow, like maybe he was aiming for Dean's hair and kind of missed, and _Jesus_ , Sam, Jesus fucking Christ, his fingers are stroking through Dean's hair anyway, soft and hesitant little touches completely at odds with the desperate certainty of his mouth, the fucking _need_ , like he'd drink Dean down if he could, and his chest is against Dean's own, angled across it but Dean can still feel the heat of it, the frenetic beat of his heart, jagged as Dean's own, and one of Sam's arms is fucked up and he needs to not be moving it, needs to not tear the stitches; he needs to be lying down but not like _this_ and _thirty seconds_ , there was a clause about thirty seconds, and Dean can't for the life of him ever remember being fucking _seduced_ so quickly. And accidentally. Because Sam asked to _kiss_ him, not to be fucking -- not for anything else.

_Accidentally_ , he reminds himself, frantic panic-bleached thought that sparks out nearly as soon as it forms, because Sam's tongue is in his mouth, Sam's tongue is slipping between his teeth and up against his own, and Dean's meant to be the one on top, here, and _no_ , not like that, not like that, _do not think_ about that. Dean's meant to be the one in control, Dean's meant to be the _grown-up_ , he's meant to be taking _care_ of his kid, his scarred, broken, mindblowing, whole-reason-for-living kid who's stoned and got no idea what he's doing, really; he's _not_ meant to be letting Sam undo him in the best and worst way possible. Just because Sam happens to be fucking amazing at it doesn't make it right, doesn't mean it's okay, and even though it's a new and _special_ kind of agony, he tilts his head back, breaking contact; he angles his head, and Sam's mouth slips down to his jaw, and mother _fuck_ , stop it, _Sam_. Sam. _Sam_. "Hey," he says, and hopes it doesn't sound like a moan. "Hey, Sammy, man, that's, uh. One hell of a kiss, dude, but let's save some for later, huh?"

And, wow. A sentence. Someday, he's pretty sure he'll look back on that and marvel at the fact that he could fucking speak at _all_ , much less come up with something semi-coherent, but right now, he's more concerned with the fact that Sam's still fucking _hugging_ him with one arm, and threading a hand through his hair with the other, like he's transfixed by the geometry of the gelled spikes, by the way they feel against his fingers, and this position's about to become really fucking awkward if Dean doesn't get some personal space within the next like fifteen seconds. He attempts to shift, move his hips, at least, away from Sam, who, thank fucking God, is apparently too entranced by whatever the fuck he's doing to Dean's hair to notice, or at least to object. "What do you say we try sitting up, huh," he says hopefully, because if Sam's distracted, maybe he'll say _yes_ without really thinking about it, maybe he'll agree just because it's Dean doing the suggesting, and _fuck_ , Sam needs to stop doing that and Dean needs to stop being a fucking asshole who'll take advantage of it, but this is for Sam's own _good_ , and that makes it okay. That makes this an exception, he tells himself, and then he tells himself that no, it doesn't, he's an absolute bastard, but it needs to happen anyway.

"You wanted me to lie down," and Sam's hand stills in his hair, the bony side of his wrist resting against the curve of Dean's ear, and if Dean's body could stop being so incredibly fucking aware of every point of contact between them, that'd be fucking peachy. "Dean? Did I do it wrong?"

And it turns out that the edge of terror, edge of _dread_ in his voice, completely familiar and entirely unexpected after the last ten minutes -- and, Jesus, Dean needs to not get used to this, to this Sam who is _not_ afraid, because as soon as it, as _he_ goes away, it's going to sting like a fucking _bitch_ and what if he can't look the old Sam, the other Sam, the _Sam_ Sam in the eyes for a little while, and what if Sam takes it personally, what if that hurts him even more -- is incredibly effective at making Dean feel like the worst fucking asshole to ever be born, which it turns out has one positive effect, and that's how it's an amazing moodkiller where his body is concerned. "No, Sammy, you did it perfect, man. Exactly right. Just like you always do, huh? You're my badass genius kid, right? One hundred percent fuckin' amazing."

"Monster," Sam says, and his one hand isn't touching Dean's hair anymore, and his other isn't holding Dean tightly anymore, and though he's still looking Dean in the face, meeting his eyes, there's an intensity in his expression that Dean doesn't like, that is at once the same and utterly different from the intensity of a moment before, when he was kissing Dean with the same devotion he does everything else, kissing him like it was what he'd survived Freak Camp to do, and no, that's not at _all_ a nice thought, but if it's what kept him going, then, yeah, Dean's glad for it. He can't imagine a world without Sam in it, can't imagine _surviving_ in a world without him. "I'm your monster, Dean, you can't forget that, okay? You don't have to be nice to me if I did it wrong, you can tell me. I'm a really good monster, I know you said I'm smart, but I miss things sometimes. Words, or signals, d-directions." And, fuck, he's stuttering again, and his muscles are locking up, and what the hell did Dean _do_ , where did he go wrong, because Sam was abso-fucking-lutely fine not thirty seconds ago.

"Hey," Dean says, and it's not hard to sit up, get one hand behind himself for leverage and wrap his other arm around Sam, keep him close. Sam goes willingly, too, and doesn't pull away; he lets Dean hold him close, not that that's a real surprise, but his head doesn't fall against Dean's shoulder, not this time, and he's breathing differently. Tightly. Not like he's on the edge of a panic attack, not yet, but like if Dean doesn't do something soon, doesn't do something _right,_ he's going to be, and God _damn_ it, he does not want to see what a panic attack looks like on this version of Sam. Which makes him a bad person, he knows, because it's not about _him_ , but it's bad enough when Sam locks up and can't breathe and Dean has to talk him down; Dean knows how to do that, now. Knows how to deal. Who the fuck knows what would happen with Sam like this, if he would cry, if Dean would be able to get him to _stop_ crying before he wore himself out and fell asleep, and, hell, even if that'd be best, Sammy getting some rest without having to worry about what Dean might be wanting to do to him, Dean's not gonna let his kid do that, okay, not gonna let Sammy sob until he's breathless, until he's got nothing left, nothing at fucking all left to do but fall asleep, no way in _hell_ , all the hells imaginable. "Sam. It's okay. It's okay, Sammy. I to- _asked_ you to lie down, and now I'm saying we should sit up's all. Changed my mind, okay? _I_ did. Not you. You didn't miss anything. You did exactly right, okay? And we don't even gotta keep sitting up, okay, if you don't want to, we can lie back down, you can, you can take a nap, I swear, whatever you wanna do," and _fuck_ , that's a dangerous promise to make, but no way in hell is Dean letting his own fucking selfish desires get in the way of taking care of his Sam. If Sammy wants to kiss him again, if that'll help, he'll just. Focus really hard on something else. _Anything_ else. Because this, whatever the fuck _this_ is, is not going to happen, he is not going to let Sam fucking fall to salt and ashes just like that. Not his _kid_.

"Don't wanna," Sam says, which is not exactly helpful, because don't wanna _what_ , Sam, but Dean'll take it. He'll take it, because it means Sam's still talking, Sam's still capable of talking, and he's even managing to protest -- something.

"Don't wanna what, dude," and he hopes his voice comes across as gentle, not interrogatory; the last thing Sam needs right now is to think Dean's demanding things of him. The _best_ thing for him right now would be to fucking sleep, or zone out in front of the TV, or eat, if he can, because that was a hell of a lot of blood he lost back there and the day Dean actually has to _try_ in order to lift him is going to count for some kind of goddamn unforgettable victory. The best thing for him right now would be something that doesn't involve Dean being right up in his personal space and thus increasing the potential for disaster by like a fucking thousandfold, but Sam's relaxing again, relaxing against him, and Dean'll take that, potential for disaster and all. "Don't wanna sit up, or don't wanna lie down?" Options help, sometimes; it's easier for Sammy when he can choose between two or three things, and it's better if it's two, rather than the whole fucking slew of options that is reality, and Jesus Christ, free will's a real fucking bitch sometimes. Geddy Lee and the whole damned band can go fuck themselves.

"Make you mad," Sam says. "Do the wrong thing," and his head's tipping forward again, forehead against Dean's shoulder, and the arm Dean's using to support them both is starting to cramp, but that's not nearly so important as the fact that Sam's back's gotta be doing the same thing at this point, the way he's half-draped across Dean's chest, and just as soon as he can be sure it won't make things worse for Sam, Dean's gonna get them moved, get them comfortable. Get _Sam_ comfortable, at least. "Dean, I learned, I could tell you if you want, if they didn't, I don't think they did, maybe they forgot, but he never forgets, I don't know," and oh _fucking hell_ , no, Dean does not want. Not right now, not ever, because if Sam's gonna tell him more fucking horror stories, he's gonna do it out of his own volition, completely fucking aware of what he's doing; Dean's not gonna steal more from him, and sure as _hell_ not when Sam would answer in that same half-asleep, half-distracted voice, like none of it means a goddamn thing except for whether the knowledge happens to be keeping Dean entertained, happens to be what Dean wants to hear at the moment.

"You're not gonna make me mad," he says. "I promise, Sam. Okay? Whatever you do. You can do whatever you want, whatever you feel like doin', and I'm not gonna get mad. You don't gotta do what I say to do, either, right? If I tell you something and you don't like it, all you gotta do is tell me, huh?"

"That's a rule," Sam says, and turns his head so that he's looking up at Dean through his hair, the early-frost of his eyes visible only in fragments, like pieces of shattered glass.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is." It would have been nice to keep rules out of this conversation, but what the hell ever. If Sam needs rules even now, then he'll get fucking rules. Whatever he needs, seriously, and Dean lets himself move his hand from the small of Sam's back up the ragged line of his vertebrae like old-crested mountains, across the pinions of his scapulae, to rest finally on the back of his neck, where the skin is damp and he's not sure whether it's from fear or exertion and _fuck_ , it needs to not be fever, not anything serious. Anything _more_ serious, because it's not like Sam's arm being torn fucking open was exactly a nice Sunday fucking drive or whatever, a walk in the goddamn park. Which, speaking of, also ended in disaster. It's a fucking _theme_ , Winchester luck. "You got it, Sammy. Just like always."

At that, Sam's hand comes up slowly to rest on the back of Dean's neck, too, mirror response even as the touch is fragile, hesitant, a mere fraction of the certainty of a few moments before, but he's touching Dean again, and that's good. That's progress, and Dean swallows. Now or never. And never would be nice, but it's not what Sam needs. Not what either of them need, and this _needs_ to happen, before he forgets. Before he loses the courage, the momentum, and the next time gets his Sam killed. "Hey, um, speaking of, of rules, I think we might have to make a new one, okay, dude? Just, just think about it, you don't gotta answer right away. Um, the next time we're hunting, you gotta try to remember you got a gun, okay? And it's okay if you can't use it, if you don't wanna, but you gotta tell me if that happens, okay, you can't just, uh. What you had to do before, you don't gotta do it anymore. I don't want you to do it anymore."

He feels Sam nod, though he's not sure whether it's actually in response to his question, to anything he said. It could just as easily be Sammy falling asleep again; his eyes are once more half-lidded, falling closed. "Okay, good. Now, hey, let's work on getting some water into you, huh? Don't want you to get dehydrated on top of everything else."

"Not thirsty," Sam says, though it's more like a mumble, and his grip on Dean's neck tightens slightly, like he thinks Dean's going to pry them apart, going to lower him back down onto the bed once more and leave him behind, go somewhere without him, and, Jesus, the effort that's gotta be taking at this point, how much Sam must not want that, how fucking _afraid_ he must be of it, and how very badly he must believe it's a possibility -- Christ, Dean doesn't even know what to do with that. And he's not sure that he does want to know, ever.

"Yeah, but you still gotta drink something," he says, because that's easier than thinking about the other thing, and he's always gone for the easy way out if he can. And is this an argument, is he fucking _arguing_ with Sam? He thinks it might be. He thinks he might be, and, yeah, maybe it's not the most vehement argument ever, but that can come later. They can work up to it, sometime when it's not happening 'cause Sam's drugged on account of almost fucking dying on account of Dean fucking up once more. He thinks longingly of the remainder of the six-pack stored in the mini-fridge by the sink, and he thinks there might be a soda in there, too, something Sam didn't finish, but the kid needs something with actual nutrients. Juice or some shit. Water, but the kind that comes from some alpine stream or whatever, not the metal-flavored kind from the tap in the bathroom, which is probably arsenic central anyway, and he's pretty sure there're vending machines outside the motel office. One of 'em's gotta have something decent, something that'll work. Are there quarters in his wallet? There're quarters in his car, anyway, change rattling around like loose ammo.

"You'll leave." The words are quiet, but distinct, _certain_ , and he's gonna try very hard not to think about how he'll remember them forever, how they'll be etched into his brain, his heart, his bones; he's gonna try very hard not to think about how tightly Sam's holding onto him, onto his neck, and how it's still not enough to leave a bruise, a mark. Not a visible one, anyway. Sam's marked him all over, just beneath his skin, and without even trying.

He blinks. "What?"

Sam's looking up at him again, and, Jesus, weren't his eyes just half-closed? Wasn't he just on the edge of sleep? How can he be looking at Dean now and making it _hurt_ , making it pare all the way down to his fucking, to whatever's at the heart of him, and yeah, _sometimes_ he thinks it really is his heart, stupidly chick-flick as that is, but other times he thinks it's fucking _nothing_ , and, God, Sam's doing his best to prove that wrong, because this wouldn't hurt if it were nothing, right? Sam's a fucking -- God, Dean doesn't know what he is. Something supernatural, but not in the bad way, just in the so-very-much-a-kid-despite-everything-that's-been-done-to-him way, and how impossibly _good_ does somebody have to be to manage that? Thinking about that, thinking about Sam, makes his throat hurt sometimes. Now's one of them. "To get something for me to drink," Sam says patiently, his expression just this edge of resigned, and _God_ , it's devastating, how fucking _blank_ he gets, how fucking distant. Except there's sorrow there, too, and fear, and he's not doing as good of a job at hiding them as he usually does, a fact for which Dean's both grateful and really fucking scared, because if this is what it's been like every time, every time Sam has looked _resigned_ , if this is what's been just beneath that veneer, Jesus, Dean has fucked up so many more times that he could have imagined. "You'll leave, and you keep leaving, and I don't want you to. You said I could tell you if I didn't want something."

It's true, every goddamn word of it, and _fuck_ , Dean's an asshole, because what's he going to do now? Either way, he's not gonna be taking care of Sammy like he should, like he promised that he would, and it's going to take thirty seconds if he leaves, and it might as well take a fucking hour, because Sam'll be by himself and Dean made him a promise. "I'd come right back," he says lamely, like that's worth anything, and Sam sighs against his neck. Sam needs to stop doing that. No, Dean _wishes_ he would stop doing it. Sam needs to do whatever it is he wants. But it makes him sound old, older than Dean, older than Da--anybody Dean knows. Which isn't many people, okay, but that's because hunters tend to either piss people off so nobody much cares about them, or they die young and violent and hurting, and that doesn't exactly make him feel better about how Sammy sounds.

"You keep saying that. I don't want you to leave at all. I get cold when you're gone." That last stated plainly, like it's a fucking _fact_ , that's all, something completely obvious, and it probably is, at least in Sam's head, but he keeps _doing_ that, making these completely casual utterances that make Dean at once want to wrap him up in his arms and keep him safe (and that's fucking _all_ , okay, not -- nothing below the belt, anyway) and taste the pungent oil of his best-beloved gun, because he _can't_ mean this much to Sam; sure, it means more than anything else on the goddamn planet, the fact that Sam likes ( _loves_ ) him this much, but there's no fucking way he's going to be able to live with himself once he lets his kid down, because that's gonna be one hell of a long way for Sammy to fall and nobody's gonna be there to catch him, not one single damned soul.

"Sam . . ." He sighs, himself, because _I'll get you some blankets_ is such a fucking bullshit maneuver; he knows goddamn well that's not what Sam means, and he's not going to do that to the kid, not going to pretend. At least not with this. Sam deserves better, the best Dean can manage. Which ain't much to begin with, which is why he's gotta give it his all, give his kid everything he's got. Which is why he has been, why he will, always, until the day Sam says goodbye. "You wanna wear my jacket?"

Sam blinks like Morse code, looks up at him with these lighthouse eyes, huge and bright and searching; there's hope in them, now, no resignation any longer. Hope, and Dean swallows hard. "I wanna come with you," he says. "If you're going away, I wanna come, too."

_I'm not going away_ , he wants to say. _Never going away, never leaving you, not once; I'll come back for you every time, let me tell you how many times I thought of scaling the walls, slipping over the wire that bound you sharp as fate's own gold thread and tight as the marionette strings of the universe, of slipping underneath the brazen searchlight beams; how many times I named and counted the weapons it would take to break you free, calculated the odds that I would die in the process, or that you would, and the only one of those that mattered was the one that would have kept you there; I could not have saved you if I had fallen. I'd break bones for you, I would kill for you, I would burn for you, I would remove my own heart, would it help; blood is nothing between us, unless it is your own, and then it is all; I would bind us ever and always if you wanted it, if I knew that you did not deserve better, that you did not deserve more; I will save you every time you'll have it, even if only to watch you turn and walk away, my hands empty and everything I have offered, held out to you, turned down, scattered amongst the dust that rises with your feet and settles once more unbreathed to earth as you move away._

"I know, dude," he says instead. "But I'm not," and Sam looks at him, Sam is looking at him still, and he bites his lip, and he sighs, again, wondering belatedly if it sounds the same to Sam as Sam's do to him. "Yeah," he says, because some lies are so simple and so obvious that even he cannot bring himself to say them, not to Sam; he can tell them to himself, in the quiet and the dark, when Sam is dreaming safely and his own thoughts are blurred and warm as ambered sunset, but Sam would see through them even now, see them for what they are, and he will not do that, will not lie to him like this, at all. "Okay," he says. "Yeah, I want you to come, too, Sammy, but you gotta take it slow, okay? We'll take it slow together. One step at a time, and you lean on me, right, the whole way?"

"I always do," Sam says, his grip on the back of Dean's neck loosening at last, the first rainfall at the end of winter, spring-warm promise lightening his eyes. "You always let me, Dean, you always make sure I don't fall. Like that," he adds, apparently remembering every _other_ fucking time Dean's let him fall, or maybe just this most recent one, and that's not what Dean meant, but he smiles anyway, because it's not exactly like there's another option, not here, not in this room with Sam watching him like he's everything, world without end in battered jeans and motorcycle boots, like he's _anything_.

"Okay," he says. "We're gonna have to go back outside, so you might wanna wear a jacket, right? You sure you don't wanna wear mine?"

"It's not cold out there," Sam says, head tipped once more against Dean's chest, words spoken into the cotton of his shirt, the bindings of his ribs. "It's only cold when you're not here."

"It's November in New England, Sam," Dean says, like those words will mean anything to his beautiful brilliant fucked-up kid, like the goddamn weather report's going to have any significance here, when Sam's thinking like _that_. "It's gonna be cold, especially since you been inside for so long and it's getting late. Let's get another layer on you, man."

"It's colder in the desert," Sam says without moving, without pulling his head away. Not that Dean minds, it's just that his words are muffled, and tremble into Dean's chest, vibrations like aftershocks. "In Nevada. Where we don't go. We never go, I noticed, Dean. I did. People on TV always say it's hot, but it's not, it gets really cold at night. In the winter."

"Yeah?" He's not sure where Sam's going with this, but maybe he'll be more open to the idea of wearing a jacket once he's finished his lecture. Maybe. It's a possibility, who the fuck knows, it's not like there's _precedence_ for this, which, on one hand, thank fucking God for the fact that Dean's managed not to get him hurt this badly _before_ , but on the other, there shouldn't be precedence happening now, because it shouldn't have happened at all, shouldn't have happened and damn it, _him_ , straight to fucking hell, Dean should not _want_ it to happen again, because, yeah, maybe it'd mean Sam would smile at him again, maybe it would mean Sam would look at him without fear and without flinching, touch him without hesitation and fucking _kiss_ him, but it would also mean that Sam had gotten _hurt_ , and that's not a risk worth taking, that's not a risk worth _anything_.

"You can freeze to death," Sam says. "Not you, you're a hunter. You're Dean. You wouldn't. Other people. Even monsters, Dean, it gets so cold that even monsters freeze and die. I almost froze."

"When?" Dean says, and if his voice has a little of the arctic in it just then, that's just fucking _coincidence_ , is all, and he hopes to hell that Sam won't pick up on it. He probably won't, after all. Though it'd be just Dean's luck, just _their_ luck, if he did.

Sam leans back a little to look up at him; Dean holds him steady, feels him relax back into the touch, Dean's grip, let Dean take the entirety of his weight, and how the _fuck_ can something like that mean everything, how can something so simple be worth so much; Sam redefines everything he knows about physics, gravity, the world. Sam is himself redefinition. "In the winter."

"No, I mean, which winter," because if he ever finds out which fucking guards were working that year, that month, that fucking night, it's possible they'll find themselves staked out in the middle of the goddamn tundra in their skivvies, if he can wait that long; otherwise, they might end up bloody and handcuffed to a fucking guardrail on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, way up in Maine, where the wind blows like a fucking bitch, ice that slices straight through to bone, and the air tastes of salt and shipwreck and there's nobody much gonna be coming by to check on them, nobody much coming by at all. Yeah, he's got a place all picked out, just like that, and as soon as he can get the fucking _names_ , and as soon as Sam's okay to be left on his own for, for, what, a day, maybe two at the most--

"Winter." Sam shakes his head, base of his skull moving slightly against the edge of Dean's palm, tangling hair threaded between Dean's fingers, and eyes wide with something that Dean prays to whatever the hell might be listening and feeling generous isn't fucking _fear_. "Dean, I don't, what do you mean? Winter. After it stopped being so hot and until it got warm again. Is it different for reals? Is it different outside? Do you get cold, too?"

"Winter," Dean says, slowly. Echoing. Late-discovered death sentence, and what the _hell_ , he'd known things were bad. He'd known Sam was fucking _tortured_ , and starved, and beaten, and God knows what else. Or maybe God fucking _didn't_ , and that was the whole problem, because maybe if there were a fucking God to begin with, the whole goddamn place would've burned to the ground years before. And maybe it would have been warm, and maybe his Sam would've been fucking _glad_ for that, even as he was fucking killing himself for the fact that he'd, what, _wasted Dean's time_ , and it's funny how this is at once one of the best and the worst days of Dean's life. He thinks he might throw up. Throw up, or laugh hysterically, or go get fucking wasted, and none of those are really options right now, so he just hopes that the thought doesn't show on his face. It probably does. Sam probably sees the whole damn thing, right through him, just like always. "Yeah, Sam. Yeah, it's -- no, it's the same for reals. For me. Everybody gets cold in the winter."

"Sometimes there were blankets," Sam says, and, Jesus, is he trying to make Dean feel better? Stoned out of his fucking _mind_ , and maybe on the edge of terrified, and talking about how he almost fucking died every _year_ , like when Dad was letting Dean spike his hot chocolate and they were watching crappy Christmas movies about families that were way too fucking happy to be real, Sam was nearly _shivering_ to death, or maybe he was past that point, maybe he was just _lying_ there, waiting for it to happen, _hoping_ , and-- "Sometimes I got lucky and mine didn't have holes in it. I need to wear shoes, where're my shoes? They'll know if I don't."

"Um," Dean says, and, okay, so he's kind of having difficulty making the leap from Sammy freezing to death to Sammy needing his shoes, so sue him. It's kind of a mindfuck, is all. One more on top of everything else, and if he makes it through the day without breaking, if he gets them _both_ through the day, he'll -- do something. Something he cannot even _comprehend_ at the moment, because breathing's kind of taking a hell of a lot more effort than it should, and he's still not sure it's working, that he's managing to keep it even enough to not terrify (even _more_ ) the kid pressed up against his chest. "They'll know what, Sammy?"

"What I am. Reals wear shoes. If I go outside, even if I'm with you, even if you take me, and somebody sees, they'll know, and you'll have to show your ID and they'll look at me and what if I do something wrong, what if I make them angry or sick or afraid like I keep making you sad because I keep saying the wrong things, I keep." And he stops abruptly, as abruptly as possible considering the dazed-slow rhythm of his speech, only the faintest edge of panic-rush slipping in, and Dean wonders what the fuck is showing on his own face, because he absolutely does not like the look on Sam's, all dazed revelation, this shade like dawning horror in the shadow-bruises beneath his eyes, and something tight in the way he's holding his mouth, the moment before he speaks again. "Dean. You shouldn't have given me painkillers before, I'm a monster, we're meant to hurt. To be hurt, I mean. But we do, we hurt reals too, and that's why it has to hurt us, we have to learn."

"Jesus _fuck_ , Sam," Dean says, and for a second his voice isn't familiar, this intense, scarily calm thing that can _not_ be coming from him, not the way his heart's pounding, not the way his hands feel like they've turned to fucking liquid nitrogen, past ice, almost past feeling at all, and, please, please, don't let Sam be feeling that, don't let him have noticed. "No, you're fucking not, okay? Are you hurting? Right now, tell me, Sammy, are you in pain _right now_?" _In pain_ , because who the hell knows how Sam'll take _hurting_ , how he would have answered. If he would have said _yes, I'm hurting you, I can tell_ , and it's true and Dean couldn't have denied it, he will _not_ lie to his kid, but it isn't Sam's _fault_ and he doesn't think Sam would understand, right now, the difference. The distinction.

When you love somebody, you hurt _for_ them, you hurt when they do. Sam doesn't even believe he's _human_ , there's no fucking way he'd understand that. Even Dean didn't, not for the longest time, not until _Sam_.

"My arm," Sam says, in this small voice that makes Dean think of the first days, those first fucking days when he was so fucking quiet and so fucking scared and so fucking _broken_ , this small voice like it's a confession, an admission of failure, like he thinks Dean's going to hurt him for saying it, or at least hate him. Like there's anything in the world that could make Dean hate him, could make Dean do anything other than love him completely, Jesus _Christ_ , Sam. And this after telling Dean that he nearly fucking _froze to death_ every winter. Sam's the strongest, bravest person Dean knows, the most _human_ in all the best ways, and he has no fucking idea. "My arm hurts, Dean, but it's not bad, it's okay, it's better than it was, you made it better," and he smiles, this weak, tremulous thing that only barely qualifies, that isn't _anything_ like the way he was smiling at Dean before, and, fuck, Dean wants to rewind the afternoon -- the evening, now -- back to then, back to when Sam was smiling and giggling and wasn't _hurting_ , was _kissing_ him, and just _stay_ there, stay there until he knows what to do next. Until he knows how to deal with this, with Sam. Until he can be fucking _good_ enough, as good as his kid deserves. As good as his kid _needs_ him to be.

Which might be never, and fuck, they are so goddamn screwed.

\--


	5. Chapter 5

"Okay, kiddo," and when the hell did he start with that, when did he turn into fucking _Bobby_ , he's pretty sure he made a mental note not to do that, "that means it's time for more painkillers. 'Cause, dude, you hurting means there's something wrong, okay? You gotta tell me when that happens so we can make it stop. You did good, telling me now, okay, Sammy? You did really good."

And, fuck, so maybe it's early. Whatever. His kid's hurting, his brave fucking miraculous superhero of a kid, and that's what matters, and when he's better, Dean can, like, try to get him to take vitamins or whatever the fuck. He eats a hell of a lot more vegetables than Dean does anyway, and to say that he drinks _less_ would be a fucking hilarious apocalypse of an understatement, and it's not like Dean's keeled over from liver damage or kidney damage or whatever the hell already, so that's not even gonna be necessary, Sam's gonna be fucking _fine_. And in the meantime, Dean's going to get him to stop _hurting_ ; that's his number-one fucking priority, here, because Sam needs to not look like he's on just this side of crying and like the only thing that's keeping him from crossing that line is the fear of fucking disappointing Dean, of fucking scaring him, and Jesus _fuck_ , Sam needs to not even think about that right now. Because, yeah, Dean might be a little terrified, but that's not Sam's fault, and it's sure as hell not _Sam's_ problem.

"I'm a monster," Sam says, _whispers_ , like it hurts him to talk, or at least to say _that_ , and no, he's not, and he really needs to shut the hell up about that; Dean's seriously fucking elated that he's willing to argue, but if he could pick a subject that _doesn't_ make Dean want to bloody his knuckles or break glass, that would be fucking peachy. "I can hurt. It's okay, Dean, I promise, it's okay. I won't break."

"I know, dude, you're like fucking Wolverine. Adamantium, right?" Except of course Sam's got no idea what he's talking about, so he swallows and hopes his hands are a hell of a lot steadier than he feels right now, his heartbeat a staggering, raggedy thing. "But I'm not, okay, and when you, when you're hurting, even if you don't tell me, it, it's not good, okay, dude? Makes me, uh, me hurt, too. So you gotta tell me, when you are, and then we gotta make it better, for both of us," and Jesus _fuck_ , he hopes Sam won't remember this part later, because way to guilt-trip a sick, hurt, _trauma survivor_ , Winchester; he so fucking does not want to have to look into Sam's eyes every day for the rest of his life, or however long Sam will have him, and see that knowledge, know exactly what else he gave Sam to worry about. And then Sam squeezes his eyes shut, and nods, and it looks like a shiver except it's way too tightly controlled for that, and Dean lets out a breath and wonders why relief always makes his heart hurt when it comes to Sam, like his whole existence is wound up so tightly in the kid that there's nothing about him that doesn't strike every pyromaniac nerve in Dean's body and twist like wire around his heart, nothing about him that doesn't make Dean want to set things on fire or break bones and laws and speed limits or kiss the _hell_ out of him, leave slow roseblood bruises across his throat. Sam's at once the simplest and most complex concept Dean has ever encountered, a heartbreak poem, a reason to breathe.

"You think you can swallow some pills dry?" he asks, like Sam didn't survive eleven years enduring fucking _Freak Camp_ , and shifts a little so that he can reach out for the medkit, and, yeah, maybe that means keeping one hand on the back of Sam's neck but letting go of him with the other, drawing up one leg to take its place, keep Sam kind of upright or at least mostly slumped against him, but it's _necessary_. No fucking way is he letting Sam go right now, not even for a second, no way is he letting Sam fall, and Sam nods again, his eyes still closed.

Dean is such a fucking asshole for being glad of that.

"Okay. Just a sec, we'll get you taken care of, 'kay?"

Sam's eyes open at that, not all the way but maybe as much as he can make them, and he just fucking _looks_ at Dean, and takes a breath that isn't quite full, isn't _deep_ , has the ragged echo of Dean's own heart, and that's when it hits him. What he just said. And, fuck, way to fucking _go_ , he tells himself, because Sam _told_ him, basically if inadvertently, and he knew better and he still fucking said the thing that. The thing that made Sammy look so bad, before, the thing that made him look so much worse than the goddamn blood all over him did. "Make you stop hurting," he says, easy as he can, _casual_ as he can, like he's just clarifying it for himself, just fucking _saying_ it, because drawing attention to this, to things like this, and, Jesus, there are so fucking many of them because so goddamn often he just doesn't fucking _think_ , makes it worse for Sam, makes it so much fucking _worse_ for his kid. Even if they both fucking know exactly what it is they're not saying, Sammy deals better if it stays unsaid, and yeah, that means Dean can't exactly _reassure_ him, can't try to make things better otherwise, but for Sam's sake, he deals.

For Sam's sake, he'd deal with so much more.

"It's okay," Sam says, whispers, more the force of breath against Dean's chest, each syllable an exhalation, than words themselves. His eyes are still locked on Dean's, and _fuck_ , that hurts, and Dean can't make himself look away. Won't let himself. _Never break eye contact when you're selling a con_ , he hears in John's voice, wisdom he grew up with, but this isn't a con, it's Sam. Everything is real where Sam is concerned; everything is true, and everything matters. _Never break eye contact when you're telling the truth_ , that's one of _his_ , that's one of his Sam-rules. Not the ones for Sam, but the ones about him, the ones he makes for himself because Sam deserves somebody consistent, somebody constant, somebody who doesn't fuck up, at least as much as he can help it. "You meant it different." And _yeah_ , and that should go without saying, and Jesus, Sam should know that, Sam should have never had to _think_ about it, and he should not be the one trying to make it okay now, trying to take care of Dean like it's his responsibility and like Dean deserves it, like Dean deserves the last of what's gotta be like absolutely fucking _no_ energy left.

"Nope," Dean agrees, as light as he can without being sick, and he doesn't think he manages very well, but he forges on anyway. "No, good, Sammy, yeah. I meant it, I meant it different. I meant it the way it always shoulda been, okay, the way it's always gonna be now. I slip up and say that, I mean I'm gonna make you feel better, make you stop hurting and get you okay again, but I'm gonna, I'm gonna try real hard _not_ to say it, okay. I'm gonna do my best," and his best is _shit_ , his best is nothing, his best is worth less than a prayer or a standard round into the chestplate of a charging werewolf, nothing but a breath of hope and a fucking crushing _ocean's_ worth of pressure right after, but maybe Sammy won't think about that right now. Maybe Sammy will close his eyes again and believe in him, the way Dean used to believe in Dad, and the memory scalds his heart. Fuck, if he ever hurts Sa-- _leaves_ Sam the way Dad left him (because what choice was it, really; it's still leaving if it's your heart and goddamn soul tossed out the door, not like you got any choice but to go after it into the cold), he hopes he'll be struck down on the spot and go straight to fucking _hell_.

"You're a dictionary," Sam says. "Dean. Dictionary of Dean," and his eyes close again and he's breathing better, now, a little, and Dean kind of wants to laugh, because, Jesus, Sam, where the hell did you come up with that, what the hell's going on in your giant savant brain right now, but he can't, not yet, because Sammy said he's _hurting_ , Sammy said he's hurting and if _Sam_ said it, it's gotta be bad. He nudges aside the unzipped flaps of the medkit, fumbles inside without bothering to look. Braces the bottle against the side of his thigh to uncap it, goddamn childproofing, Dean could fucking pick _locks_ when he was a child, what the hell kind of short-bus kid's gonna be held back by the need to apply pressure _while_ turning, it's not exactly goddamn rocket science.

"Hey, Sam, you don't gotta open your eyes, dude, but you at least gotta open your mouth, okay? You gotta swallow these," and he sets the bottle on the nightstand, makes a mental note to find the lid before Sam lies back down; just because his kid's okay with sleeping on a _gun_ doesn't mean he should be and doesn’t mean he should have to sleep on some bitch-edged piece of plastic, and Dean thinks his hand is kind of sweaty around the pills, but he hopes Sammy won't mind. He could wipe it on his jeans, but that'd mean letting go of Sam's neck, and that's not exactly a concession he's willing to make right at the moment, and _fuck_ , no, he needs to not think about Sam's mouth on his hand, Sam's mouth open against the saltsweat of his palm, as he cups the back of Sam's neck to hold him close, and Jesus fuck, how the hell do monks do it. Or not do it, and he manages to keep his snicker silent, but it's hysteria-edged even in his head.

Sam's mouth opens obediently, his head tipped back, and Dean swallows, because once upon a fucking time, he couldn't even get Sam to accept a fucking _thermometer_ without hurting him, and now, now Sam is doing _this_ , like he trusts Dean absolutely, and that's gonna have to be another one of those things Dean files away for a goddamn rainy day or sleepless night or maybe for fucking _never_ , because if he pauses to contemplate it now, he's either gonna have a breakdown or be a very old man by the time he gets his head around it. "Okay, um," Dean says, and lifts his palm to Sam's mouth, and Sam did this by _himself_ , last time, or at least mostly, and fuck, Dean wishes that were the case now. Because Sam's tongue against his lifeline or whatever the fuck it's called, while he's got one knee behind Sam's back, bracing him close, is like fucking nitroglycerin or kryptonite or both.

And then Sam is swallowing, then his mouth isn't against Dean anymore and his head is tipping forward so that his hair brushes the hand Dean's still holding out, and he says in that same not-a-whisper, "Best book I ever read, Dean, I swear," and, sure, Sammy. Sure. Sam's eyes open like morning in California, sea-tide and fog rolling out and slow warm heat easing into Dean's skin, and Christ, Dean hasn't smoked in years, but by God if he doesn't want a cigarette now, doesn't want to set _something_ on fire and breathe in deep, but Sam's better than any nicotine hit, and he bites his lip instead.

"Gotta get you something to drink, now, okay?" he says. "You'll feel better by the time I get back, Sam, I promise. I'll be back soon, and your arm'll stop hurting, and then we can, we can do," and his brain is the most fucking unhelpful thing ever, stuttering on images of Sam's eyes and mouth, his hands, his throat, suggesting all the ways Dean could hold him so that he wouldn't hurt his arm, all the ways he could ease Sammy down so Sammy wouldn't have to do anything at all, and what the _fuck_ , now is so not the time.

Vending machines. Cold air. That's gonna be a godsend. And needs to be, _soon_. "I'll get you my jacket, huh, to wear until I get back, you gotta keep it safe for me, okay," he says instead, and hopes Sam isn't tracking well enough to notice the non sequitur, even though that's kind of an asshole thing to hope.

"It's November in New England," Sam says solemnly. "It's gonna be cold," and Jesus fuck if he isn't absolutely serious, his forehead already furrowing into a frown and his grip on the back of Dean's neck tightening again and that pressure should -- should not be having the effect that it is, should not be _going_ where it is. Sam's holding on for fucking _dear life_ , holding on tight as he can because he's worried about Dean's health, not because he's some hot chick or some dude he picked up who can't wait to get all over him, except.

Except Sam kind of absolutely _is_ a hot dude, for a really fucking perverted definition, _Christ_ , he's a _kid_ , but it's not like he's exactly been _reticent_ to touch Dean lately.

As soon as he's done using it to take care of Sam, Dean's so going to fucking salt and burn his brain.

"Nah, it'll be fine," he says. "I'm not gonna be gone long, I swear, Sammy. Just gonna run over to the vending machines and back, and then we're gonna stay in for the night, right? Just you and me? Hey, how 'bout while I'm gone, you think about what you wanna eat, okay?" And where the hell is his _jacket_ , that'd be a good start. Not so much to his _leaving_ Sam, but to his getting back to him, getting back to his kid with something that'll maybe make Sammy feel better or at least not taste like _metal_ , getting back to his kid and letting Sammy put his hands all over him, if that's what he wants. Huddle up close and eat pizza and watch something about, like, whales or something -- because, yeah, Sam said the thing about wanting to watch _him_ , but, seriously, the way Sam's attention span's going, he'll hold his interest for like ten seconds, fifteen if he wants to flatter himself -- until Sam falls asleep, and then.

_And then_ is something Dean's not going to think about, because _and then_ is later, _and then_ is tomorrow, _and then_ is frightened scared sad Sammy, and he's already going to hell, so he might as well enjoy this while it lasts, Sam's palm against the back of his neck, the way Sam's fingers twined around his, earlier, the way Sam fucking _kissed_ him earlier.

"Just you and me," Sam says, and are his eyes closing again? Please let his eyes be closing again. Please, dear fucking whoever-the-hell, please, _Mom_ , please let him be falling asleep, because there's no way Dean's going to be able to leave if Sam's looking at him, if Sam's looking at him with those huge hurt eyes and his hair in his face and Dean's name in his mouth, and if he says, "Don't go," then there's no way in hell Dean's going to go _anywhere_ , because, yeah, Sam needs juice or whatever's gonna pass for it, but he also needs to not cry, to not feel lost or scared or alone any more than he has already in his life, and, Jesus.

Sam fucks up all his plans. Sam fucks _him_ up, and he loves Sam for it, to a degree that's frighteningly intense when he lets himself think about it, think about its immensity.

So he doesn't. So he says, "Yeah, Sammy, just us, dude. I promise. You think about what you want us to be eating, okay? Pizza or Chinese or Thai or Mexican or, I dunno, maybe there's a diner somewhere close by does takeout, we could get burgers," and that's way, _way_ too many options, and Sam's going to panic, Sam's going to get overwhelmed and _shit_ , just because Dean's kind of on edge, here, what with Sam getting mauled and Sam kissing -- making _out_ \-- with him and Sam's accidental little how-I-almost-died-and-it's-no-big-deal stories, doesn't mean he needs to make Sam scared, too. _You're talking too fast_ , Sam said, and if he can notice that now, and if he can still tell what it _means_ , then, yeah, Dean needs to be doing a fuckton of a better job of keeping himself in check, at least on the outside. At least where Sammy will see.

"Waffles," Sam says, and yeah, his eyes _are_ closing, that's definite, but he's still talking, and he just said _waffles_. Which is immensely weird, yeah, but Dean's had some pretty weird thoughts himself, times like this, so it's understandable. And it's okay, too, as long as Sam's not thinking about, like, some time some asshole motherfucker guard tried to feed him poison waffles or some shit, and unless he doesn't mean waffles at _all_ , unless it's something like "take care of," with its own horrible mindfuck of a definition, but Sam's _had_ waffles before, Dean's pretty sure, and he seemed okay with them. "With strawberries. Dean." And his hand slips off of Dean's neck, slides forward to trail down Dean's chest, so fucking _slowly_ , agonizing, and Dean will _not_ grit his teeth. Gravity at work, is all, and Dean swallows, wraps his own hand around it, around Sam's fingers, as he guides Sam back down on to the bed, uses his knee to nudge the lid to the pill bottle out of the way. "Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy. Right here, man. Waffles. With strawberries. Um." And it's not that he doesn't want to _ask_ , it's that he doesn't want to know the answer, necessarily, because what if breakfast's ruined for them forever, and worse, what if Sam's been faking it this entire time?

And, Jesus fuck, Winchester, if you could stop freaking out about fucking _waffles_ for one fucking second, that'd just be fucking awesome, he tells himself, and focuses instead on aligning Sam so that his head's on the pillows, so that he's not going to hurt his neck. Not that he would, in the, like, two minutes at most it'll take Dean to get back, but Dean does it anyway, because he can. Because Sam deserves to have somebody taking care of him, fuck, no, _looking out_ for him, and because Sam doesn't _mind_.

"Like we had on the side of the road," Sam says. Mumbles, really, but Dean hears him clear enough, because it's _Sam_ , and he'll always, always hear Sam. Sam's eyes are closed entirely, now, but Dean lets himself keep his hand around Sam's for a moment, just in case. Just in _case_ , and because holding Sam like this, even just holding his _hand_ , after Sam said that he likes it, said that he likes Dean's fingers, is something Dean can do without worrying that he's going to make something worse somehow, accidentally do something to set Sam off. Move too fast or talk too loud or swear like his life depends on it (which it _does_ ) that he'll _take care_ of him, Jesus Christ. "Really good, Dean. It was a really good day. Warm. You remember?"

"Yeah, Sammy. Yeah, it was a, a really good day. No way in hell I'm gonna forget it, dude. Not ever."

Sam's mouth curves up slowly in a smile. "M' neither," he says, and his hand goes limp in Dean's, and Dean's pulse quickens for maybe a _second_ , yeah, but the kid almost _died_ today, so it's not like it's a completely unwarranted reaction. But no, Sam's just sleeping, Sam's fucking _fine_ , or as fine as he can be, all things considered, which means it's okay for Dean to go, okay for Dean to leave for a little while.

A little while, and he'll _always_ come back, and it shouldn't be as difficult as it is to disentangle his hand from Sam's, to make himself let go of Sam's hand, Sam's still-too-thin fingers curled in sleep like he was trying to wrap them around Dean's own once more. Dean's a _hunter_ , for God's sake. He's taken out demons and werewolves and motherfucking black dogs; he should be able to _let go of Sam's hand_ without making some big fucking deal about it. He's spent less time preparing for hunts than he's already spent trying to make himself get _up_ , and Jesus, that's ridiculous.

So he moves. So he moves his hand away from Sam's, and he stands up, and Sam doesn't react to the shift of the mattress, to Dean's absence, and that should make this easier, Dean knows. Tells himself. Because Sam won't know that he's gone, and Dean'll be back by the time he wakes up, and, _God_ , it should not be this hard to leave his kid alone for two fucking minutes.

He left his kid all alone for sixteen fucking _years_ , once. And, yeah, Sam wasn't his kid that whole time, he had that, that one woman at the beginning, and way to be a possessive fucking asshole, Winchester, but Christ, Sam survived Freak Camp until Dean got him out. He's gonna be fine, sleeping peacefully in a perfectly safe motel room with the salt-guarded doors and windows, unless somebody _non_ -supernatural comes in while Dean's back is turned and Sam's passed out and can't call for help and can't reach for his cell phone and what if Dean _never sees him again_ , and fuck, John would be so fucking furious if he knew what Dean's thinking right now, if he knew the hunter he trained to be able to take down anything, to be able to _handle_ anything, is fucking _panicking_ at the thought of leaving the amazing, brilliant kid John called a _monster_ alone for maybe two minutes. That, or John would think it's so fucking pathetic as to be hilarious, and either way, it doesn't matter, because apparently what it means is that sometime in the last five minutes, Dean's turned into somebody who's so fucking obsessive that he's having fucking _separation anxiety_ over the thought of leaving his whole, like, fucking reason for getting up in the morning for _two minutes_ , and what the hell does that say about how he's gonna be for the rest of their life, huh?

Their life. His life. Whatever, okay, maybe the fact that he can't fucking think about a life without Sam in it is also indicative of a problem, but he's kind of getting the feeling, especially after today, that it might not just be _his_ problem, so. Maybe it's not so much a problem after all, and he has seriously been fucking standing here, staring at Sammy breathing, like some sort of fucking weirdo stalker for at least a minute, so, yeah, going now.

Going now, and taking his .45 with him, and slipping Sam's cell into the still-curled fingers of his hand, closing Sam's fingers around the smooth black plastic, and Sam doesn't even wake up at that, doesn't even twitch, and, okay, now Dean can leave.

He puts his hand on the doorknob, looks back over his shoulder _once_ , and that's not overkill, that's just making sure Sam's still asleep, not just waking up slowly in time to see Dean leave, and, yeah, Sam's still there. Eyes closed, too-large t-shirt, hair in his face, and, God, the kid needs a haircut. Except for how Dean kind of loves the way his hair falls across his forehead, how it's almost always a mess, and, yeah, okay, maybe he's also got some thoughts about what it would be like to twine his fingers through it again, to twist it around his hand as he mouthed at Sam's neck or got a knee between Sam's legs and his mouth up against Sam's or as Sam's hands slid down his chest again and kept _going_ , and Jesus fuck, okay, leaving _right the hell now_.

He doesn't slam the door behind him, but only because he's pretty sure that _would_ wake Sam up, and he doesn't want his kid to wake up to Dean slamming the door and leaving him behind, because that might actually be the worst thing Dean could do to him today, and that's saying a lot, considering that Sam's got a goddamn hole in his arm and all and seriously, genuinely fucking believed that Dean was going to _kill_ him for at _least_ five minutes.

Hey, at least he believes Dean's somebody who keeps his promises, right?

Sometimes, Dean really fucking hates his subconscious.

He bites his lip, hard, makes his hand into a fist and very carefully does not use it to punch the wall. Instead, he walk-runs over to the vending machines, and, yeah, maybe anybody who might be looking at him's gonna think he's somebody with, like, a serious craving for a caffeine fix, but what the fuck ever. Sammy's waiting, and it's also kind of fucking freezing out here, because _it's November in New England, Dean_ , and, great, now he's got an inner voice that sounds like Sam, only bitchier. And he could go back for his jacket, it's not like Sam needed it for a security blanket after all, but that'd only take longer, and, seriously, he's done hunts in fucking Minnesota in the middle of fucking winter before. Which, yeah, maybe resulted in hypothermia and John giving him a verbal ass-kicking while hauling him back to their shitty cabin and dumping him on the single cot and then going back and forth between yelling at the fucking stove that wouldn't fucking light, Jesus Christ, his son's _freezing_ for God's sake, and yelling at Dean for not wearing a fucking jacket or bringing his fucking gloves or bringing more than a goddamn lighter and a salt-loaded pistol, but this isn't _nearly_ close to that bad, and he's only gonna be outside for maybe another ninety seconds, tops.

Coke, Diet Coke, Cherry Coke, 7-Up, blue-flavored Gatorade, and, _finally_ , juice. Grape and orange. Does Sam have a preference? _Fuck_. He seriously cannot fucking remember, because some days Sam's capable of making a decision, which means he likes one thing more than the other, and on those days, he smiles at Dean a little and doesn't duck his head quite so often or so much, and he _talks_ , and other days he likes _everything_ , really and truly as far as Dean can tell -- and other days he _also_ likes everything, but only in the way that means he's fucking grateful for being given _anything_ , and Dean has to decide whether Sam's more likely to actually _want_ a fucking cheeseburger or a sandwich or a salad, because no matter what he orders, Sam's going to make himself choke it down, whether or not he actually wants it, just because it's _food_ , and it's food that _Dean bought for him_ , and, God, Sam, Dean would do so much more, the kid shouldn't be so fucking grateful that Dean's willing to give him, like, what's necessary in order for him to _survive_.

Grape and orange. Motherfucking grape and orange, and he _cannot fucking remember_ , and when he digs his wallet out of his pocket, there're a couple singles, and that settles it. He'll get both, and Sammy can choose, or Sammy can have both, Sammy can have whatever the hell he wants. Waffles. Waffles with strawberries, and yeah, Dean has no idea where he's going to find those. A diner, probably, or maybe there's an IHOP nearby, or something, except the problem with _that_ is that it's not exactly like either of those places tend to _deliver_ , so he's going to have to hope Sam sleeps through him coming back in and then _leaving_ again, leaving for long enough to drive to a restaurant and wait while they inevitably finish the order, because of course it's not gonna be done on time, fuck whatever estimate they give him on the phone, and _pay_ for the damn food and get back in his baby and drive _back_ to Sam and there's gonna be stoplights and stop signs (and those aren't so much a problem, unless there's a pedestrian in the way or Sam's in the car, too, 'cause, okay, yeah, maybe he's noticed the way Sam's forehead furrows a little whenever Dean blows past one without stopping, and stop signs are fucking _stupid_ , but whatever, if abiding by that particular traffic law makes Sam like him more, then he's all for it), and what if Sam wakes _up_ during that, what if he wakes up and Dean's _gone_ and even if he's got his cell phone, what if he doesn't remember what he's meant to do with it, or what if he does, except like worst-case-scenario, what if he thinks he's meant to _run_ , stumble out into the parking lot, and -- God _damn_ it.

But it's that or Dean's gonna have to place the order and then get Sammy into his shoes and into his jacket, into _at least_ one jacket, and get him out into the car, and drag him across town to sit in some stupid parking lot with a view of, like, a dumpster and the back of some depressing hotel made for all those people in suits with bad haircuts who go to fucking _conventions_ , and, yeah, Sam likes the Impala, who wouldn't, and the kid's a genius, so that's kind of a given, 'course he loves it, but that doesn't mean that hanging out in the shotgun seat all alone when he's just had, like, minor surgery (or major surgery, but Dean fixed it, so that makes it minor. _Major_ is hospitals, and hospitals are not for Sam, not because Dean wouldn't take him there in a goddamn second if Sam wanted it, _needed_ it, but because Sam says they're for reals and _rea-p_ -people _would know, Dean, people w-would know w-wh-what I_ am, and what Sam _is_ is the best fucking thing in the world, but, yeah, Dean gets it. He hates hospitals, too, and _he_ doesn't have to worry about being fucking turned over to the ASC or even being stared at 'cause of a goddamn tattoo, and, yeah, Dean would be by Sam's side every damn second, but he's not sure they'd let him stay once he punched somebody for bein' an asshole, and there goes the being-by-Sam's-side idea) and is stoned off his ass, and maybe that last part would make it easier, but it's not like Sam's handled being alone so great already, right?

And Dean's going to think about Sam's health, about how he needs to stay still and calm and _rest_ , and not how fucking adorable (because Dean Winchester does not use the word adorable, okay, not unless he's referring to himself and not unless he's being sarcastic, and the only other exception is if he's maybe trying to pick somebody up or insulting something dead and ugly) he'd look curled up in the shotgun seat with his head against the glass and Dean's jacket draped over at him, maybe with Zeppelin playing quietly 'cause Sam says he likes it, even though he says it all solemnly, and, dude, you're meant to say Zeppelin _rules_ , but that's okay, Dean knows he means it anyway, because that's how Sam says everything that he means, like it's absolutely vital that he not be misunderstood. And Dean's also _not_ going to think about Sam draped against him, about Sam sleeping against his shoulder or with his head in Dean's lap (oh _god_ ), because yeah _right_ , like Dean's gonna stick him in the backseat again and crash them both 'cause he's too busy turning around to check on his kid to pay attention to the car stopping in front of them or the other dude in the intersection or whatever.

Because he's not going to bring Sam with, is the point. He's going to find another solution. Because he's Dean Winchester, and backup plans are what he _does_. ('Cause even if they're not backup plans at the time, even if they're kind of improvised on the spot, they still totally qualify. At least, that's how it goes when he tells Bobby how awesome he was, how he torched that fucker's ass or brought the whole goddamn building down on its head, and he's not sure Bobby actually believes him, but he figures if it gets too bad, Bobby'll call him on it. Bobby's good like that, calling him on his bullshit.)

He feeds the first dollar into the vending machine, punches the little button, and something mechanical groans, spits out a bottle sloshing with purple liquid, and _gross_ , he can't remember _ever_ liking grape juice, at least before it gets all fermented and shit. It was always water, when he was sick, and these days it's coffee or beer or something stronger, depending, or soda if it's a good day or just plain too fucking early. Milk, right, milk in the morning, too, and orange juice, 'cause Sam needs his vitamins, his calcium, his whole cereal-commercial breakfast routine.

It's not until Dean feeds in the second dollar and hits the other button, the one that says ORANGE and has a little picture of an orange and thanks, Dean might've dropped out of high school, but he did get his GED and he's not fucking _illiterate_ , that the machine fucking _jams_ , and, great, that is so exactly what he does not need right now. He's going to freeze to death in a motel parking lot (no, he isn't; he's going to be a little _cold_ in a motel parking lot, Sam's the one who almost fucking froze to death every goddamn year, and that means Dean doesn't get to use that comparison anymore, because it's not _fair_ , not when Sam knows what it's like and Dean might be able to guess, but really he has no damn idea) and leave Sammy all by himself, and when somebody finds his body, he's gonna be clutching a bottle of grape juice like it's a rosary and glaring at a vending machine. Way to go out all dignified and hunter-like, he tells himself. Dad would fucking kill him, if, you know, being dead in the first place wouldn't prevent that.

He hits the button again, just in case. The machine doesn't appear to notice, or if it does, it's ignoring him. He glares at it, harder. That doesn't work, either.

"Fuck _you_ ," he tells it, and, yeah, maybe anybody who sees him now's gonna think he's a crazy person, because talking to vending machines might qualify in a way that talking to his baby absolutely doesn't, but _seriously. Now_ is when this piece a' crap is gonna jam, when all he wants to do is get his broken, hurt kid some orange juice, and the good thing about the cold, he decides in retrospect, is that it tends to be kind of numbing and that makes it hurt less when he punches things. Things like vending machines. And maybe that's an overreaction (and also, fucking _ow_ ), but it _works_ , the machine spits out another bottle, orange this time, and as a bonus, Dean hears the jingle of coins clattering into the return slot.

_Awesome_. Total Fonzie move, though it's not until he's dumping the quarters into his pocket (because Sam might need more juice later, okay? And if not, they're always gonna be needing a newspaper or laundry money or a candy bar or five, whatever, the point is that he's pretty sure he didn't break his knuckles, but they're gonna be bruised in the morning, so this is, like, compensation) that he realizes there's nobody around to be impressed, and he can't exactly expect Sam to be, either, 'cause who the hell knows how he'd react to, "So, I punched this vending machine 'cause it wasn't giving me your juice, and, hey, look, bonus quarters!"

Though that's kind of a lie. 'Cause Dean's pretty sure he knows how Sam would react. If Sam was tracking well enough to listen, Dean's pretty sure he'd focus on the Dean-punching-something aspect and get upset about Dean's hand instead of focusing on the awesome part.

But Dean got the juice. He got the juice, and that's what matters, because it means he can go back to Sammy now, and wake him up, and try to figure out where the fuck they're going to get _waffles_. With strawberries.

_God_ , Sam.

Sam's in the same position he was when Dean left, and he doesn't stir at the sound of Dean opening the door. His fingers are tight around the cell phone, though, Dean can see that even from the doorway, and what does that  _mean_ , does it mean Sammy woke up fucking  _scared_  and needed something to hold onto, or does it just mean that it's a reflex, now, to trust Dean, so habitual that he does it in his sleep?   
  
It's not that the second thought makes Dean's hand stop hurting as much, it's that it didn't hurt that badly to begin with and he was just being a pussy before. That's  _all_. He slides the gun out from under his shirt and sets it down carefully on the table by the door, because Sam  _not_  waking up to see Dean's gun on the nightstand, even if that's where it is, like, half the time anyway, would be a good thing, considering what happened before. Considering what he might  _think_ , which is why Dean moved the one he'd been fucking  _lying_  on, too, and who the hell knows how he's even going to wake up, if he'll still want waffles at all or if he'll just want to go back to sleep, and that thought should not be as devastating as it is, because, uh, yeah. A hurt kid, a hurt,  _drugged_  kid, wanting to sleep it off, it wouldn't exactly be a surprise. Hell, every time Dean's been hurt, that's all  _he's_  wanted to do, and he can't recall ever being as young as Sammy looks right now.  
  
The juice, though, the juice goes on the nightstand, within easy reach, next to the little orange bottle with somebody else's name on it, and he settles gingerly onto the edge of the bed, stretches out and aligns himself with Sam, and should that be a habit already, should that have become a habit  _this fast_? It's gonna hurt like everlasting hell when he has to break it tomorrow, but he's not gonna think about that yet, not until he has to. Fuck all that shit about denial being a  _problem_. He touches Sam's good shoulder, instead, gently as he can. "Hey, Sammy."   
  
Sam doesn't react, and that's  _fine_ , he tells himself. That's for the best. Not like fucking IHOP was gonna deliver, anyway. He sits up a little, though, just enough to be able to lean over, reach for the cell phone in Sam's hand. Sam shouldn't sleep with it like that any longer than he has to, he'll wake up with a cramp in his hand (and, yeah, maybe Dean knows from experience. Maybe there were a couple times when Dad was gonna call, or Dean had thought he was gonna call, or had  _hoped_  he would call, and it didn't happen, and, whatever. He learned not to sleep with the phone in his hand. Life lesson. It worked out), and as soon as Dean's fingers close around his, Sam's eyes open. Not quickly, not quickly at all, but they  _open_ , and blink, and focus after a couple seconds, and Dean should not be so goddamn elated.   
  
 _Really_.  
  
"Dean?" Sam says,  _asks_ , like maybe he's not sure who's leaning over him, who he's looking up at all dream-dazed and fucking gorgeous, and who the hell else would it be, Sam? (Dean really does not want to know.)  
  
"Yeah, dude, it's me. I got you some juice, okay? Orange and grape, you got a preference?" He pries the cell phone out of Sam's hand -- so goddamn easy now, since Sam's hand went loose as soon as he opened his eyes and saw Dean -- and leans back to set it by the juice, out of the way. Sam's head tilts a little towards him, body listing into Dean's, unnaturally warm mess of height and hair and sharp bones hardly muted by the combined threadbare cotton of his Dean-shirt and Dean's own grey one, and he mumbles something that sounds like  _Dean_ , and, okay, so Sam's not completely coherent. Not like that should be a surprise, either, because if he  _were_ , this would so not be happening. "Yeah, man, I'm right here. You got me. You gotta tell me if you want grape or orange, okay? Or both?"   
  
Sam blinks up at him, over at him. "Dean," he repeats, and then he closes his eyes again and huddles up against him even closer, and  _deliberate_ , like Dean's the only goddamn warm thing around for miles, like Sam himself isn't putting off a non-trivial amount of heat, his face pressed against the side of Dean's neck, Sam so close that Dean can feel his breath, the flicker of his eyelashes, and  _fuck_ , okay, Dean's not going to ask him again, not going to make him try to decide. He got both, and Sam can have whatever the fuck he wants as soon as he decides he wants it, and they're probably the same goddamn thing anyway, just with different food coloring. Juice coloring. Whatever. Jesus, Sam should be in a goddamn  _hospital_ , somewhere he can get actual fucking medical care and have something better to drink than vending-machine juice-substitute, except apparently the only place he's (ever) going to be comfortable is wedged up next to Dean, and how the hell did Dean manage to fuck him up that badly, to break him in the exact same places that Dean himself is broken, or maybe just the opposite ones, so they fit together like truth and beauty, charm and strange, the sound of his baby's tires doing ninety down unbroken black asphalt with the windows down and the wind making his eyes sting with something bright and nameless and as close to holy as any Winchester might ever fucking get?  
  
Sam's a Winchester, too, though, and Sam's the holiest damn thing Dean's ever seen, closest thing he's come to witnessing a miracle, and there he goes again, redefining Dean's whole goddamn world.   
  
"Cold," Sam says, speaking of, and pulls back, leans away, head on the pillow again and not touching Dean anymore and fuck if Dean kind of misses it, okay? Sam being all, like,  _cuddly_ , and not-scared, and touching him like it's nothing, no fucking big deal at all, like he does it every day and has done so his whole life, and if that's _everything_  to Dean, does that make Dean the one who's being a chick, here, even though Sam's the one who's cuddling?  
  
"You're cold?", though, is a hell of a more important question, a seriously fucking bad sign. A mild fever, that's okay, that's maybe kinda expected, Dean can deal, but if Sam's cold out of nowhere, that. That could be something else, too, and  _what was on the wolf's teeth_? What the fuck did he let get in his kid, what the fuck did he wait to get  _out_  of his kid because he was too busy being a fucking self-indulgent coward to actually do his goddamn job, and he should be able to calculate, should know off the top of his head, exactly how long it'll take to get to Bobby's. He  _should_ , because that's one of the life skills Dad drilled into him back when he was like seven and Bobby made  _damn_  sure he still remembered, back when Dean was crashing on his couch during those fucking miserable Sam-less months, those half-remembered months all bruises and bourbon and blood, Bobby snapping at him all seething sarcasm and  _you pull that again, you're losin' your keys and I'm lockin' up the liquor, not to mention all your goddamn guns, and even you ain't gonna be stupid enough to go huntin' with a damn penknife, idjit_ , fights and hunts and not sleeping until he could crash for eighteen hours straight, those months like slow suicide and fucking  _stupid_ , because it worked out, he got his Sam, and where the hell would Sam have been if Dean'd fucked up, gotten himself torn open 'cause of some solo hunt, running on sleeplessness and adrenaline and scaring  _himself_  when he looked in the mirror, or 'cause he picked a fight he was too drunk to finish right?  
  
He should know  _exactly_  how long it'll take to get Sammy to Bobby's, to  _help_ , and the fact that he doesn't right now, that he  _can't_  right now, the fact that he can't make himself think in terms of miles and state lines and speed limits, can't make himself think in terms of anything other than SamSamSamSammy, Sam's blood on his hands and on his face and on his neck, Sam on his back in the field, brave fucking kid who  _tackled_  the wolf, brilliant fucking kid who forgot that he had a goddamn  _gun_  for that same purpose, Sam kissing him, curling up against him every night, please Mom please don't let this be the last day  _please_ , is --  
  
"You." Sam opens his eyes, stares at Dean. Mere inches between them on the pillow, and Dean could close that, he could close that so fast. "Your hands. Are cold," and just like that, even though Sam's, like, half- _comatose_ , his hands are wrapped around Dean's, and Dean didn't even see him  _move_ , what the hell. Though he might have been kind of focused on the whole Sam-might-be-dying idea, yeah. The idea of the fucking apocalypse is kind of distracting like that, and  _God_ , Sam's hands are warm. And he should really, really not be using one of them, not be moving the one that's attached to the arm that the wolf tore  _open_ , but holy fuck, Sam just grabbed Dean's hands. Both of them. Without asking, and without hesitating, he just -- he just  _did_. "Said you'd be fine," and Dean swallows, because Sam's head isn't against his neck anymore, Sam isn't burrowing against him like  _that_ , but the  _rest_  of Sam is, and the thing Sam's doing with his thumbs, pressing them into the center of Dean's palms like he thinks he can warm Dean up from the inside out, is.  _Interesting_. And making Dean shiver, and  _fuck_.  
  
"I was fine," Dean says, because talking involves focusing on something other than Sam, other than what Sam's doing to him, other than what Sam asked earlier, other than how Dean said  _let's save some for later_ , and it would be so fucking like Sam to remember that word for fucking word and use it against him now. "I am fine. Dude, this is nothing, this is, like. This one time, I was, um, I was hunting in Minnesota, this, uh, I forget the name of it, but it's like this woman who goes after dudes and tries to, like, kiss them" -- and maybe talking about  _kissing_  isn't the best idea ever, fuck, moving on -- "but she only ever appears in the winter, right? In the snow. So I'm, like, out there in the middle of the goddamn winter, and it's snowing, 'cause of course it's gotta be snowing, right, and I'm waiting for her to show up, 'cause I'm a dude and kinda fit the profile, and I'm not wearing a jacket, right, 'cause I figured that'd make me a better target, 'cause her thing was, like, the, uh, the kissing thing, and then freezing people to death, this bit- _chick_  was seriously fucked up, man, and so I'm out there for, like, a couple of hours, and she's not showing up, and, uh."   
  
And it turned out that Dad had ganked her just like he said he would, according to fucking plan, except the part about Dean not wearing a jacket the whole time hadn't been part of  _Dad's_  plan,  _John's_ plan, the one they talked about, which was why John hadn't felt the need to haul ass getting back to him after tracking the demon back to its hideout and flambéing the everloving fuck out of it, but somehow mentioning John to Sam right now doesn't seem like the best idea ever, even if Sam's stoned enough that he might not even notice, might focus entirely on Dean instead, the way he is now, his hands gone still around Dean's, his eyes intent on Dean's face, waiting for him to finish, and, Christ, this might be the worst reassurance-story ever, considering that Sam has serious fucking personal experience with  _freezing to death_. He should have made something up about, like, polar bears. Sam likes polar bears. Dean swallows. "I, uh. It turned out that she'd kinda shown up after all and I just wasn't, I, uh, I fell for it just like all those other morons after all. And then it got really cold, and it was pretty bad there for awhile, like I stopped noticing how cold I was and I thought I was warm, and I kinda lost track of time, and, uh. Got hypothermia, I guess, is, is the word for it. And that was bad, but this isn't, see? 'Cause I can still feel that I'm cold, or I could, before, but I'm not so much anymore, dude, you're doing a real good job taking care of that."  
  
It's the end of the story, and Dean smiles, or tries to, because it's  _better_ , Sammy, see, and now there's juice and everything, so it's okay, but Sam's still  _looking_ at him. Staring at him.  _Intent_ again, and, fuck, what did Dean say, what did Dean  _say_. Other than the whole reminding him about what it's like to almost die of fucking cold, God, how did he not see this coming.  _Fuck_.  
  
"Why weren't you wearing a jacket?" Sam says, and it's that same solemn voice he uses when he says he likes Led Zeppelin, and that means he's dead serious, and his hands are around Dean's, yeah, but he's not moving them. He's just holding on, holding on to Dean, and he looks  _sharper_. Like he's focusing, like he's really, really focusing, and that has to be so fucking hard for him right now, because by all rights he should be passed out, dreamless and peaceful and undisturbed by Dean and his fucking insufficient juice and no waffle-plan and his fucking need to bother Sam all the time, wake Sam up and make him smile and cuddle and do all this shit he's not gonna be able to do tomorrow, but he's doing it anyway, he's making himself do it, and Jesus,  _Sam_.  
  
"I thought it would make me a better target, you know, the whole freezing thing, she'd go right for me," Dean says, and didn't he say that? He's pretty sure he said that. He wonders what else Sam doesn't remember, if it's anything that he might thus be forgiven for in the morning.  
  
"You said you fit the profile," Sam says, and he's still holding on to Dean, and there's no  _pressure_  in it, no pressure in his hands, but it's not like he's just  _limp_ , it's like it's deliberate. Like he's trying to keep himself from holding on tight, and that shouldn't scare Dean as much as it does. "You said she would have come for you anyway, and you were out there for a couple of hours. Dean."  
  
The thing is, Sam's fucking  _scary_  when he's like this. Not in, like, a monster way, not at  _all_ , Sam's the least-monstrous person Dean has ever fucking  _met_ , so much less monstrous than all of the so-called  _reals_  he has ever known, but in the sense of having this huge fucking laser brain pointed right fucking at you and  _refusing to turn away_. Dad used to do something like that, this fucking intimidating stare like he was looking right into Dean's heart and soul and whatever the hell else and seeing every dirty little unworthy thing there, and that was bad enough, that fucking hurt, and it  _still_ fucking hurts, but this. This is scary, yeah, but in a different way. Because Sam's doing the exact same thing, Sam's looking at him like he's going to figure out exactly how Dean works, exactly how he's put together, see every little broken piece and all the holes in between, all the jagged edges and the places that don't fit, but it . . . it doesn't hurt. Not like Dad's did. It's scary as hell, sure, but it doesn't  _sting_ , or ache, and it doesn't make him want to lower his eyes, stare at the scuffed toes of his boots and wait to find out how bad his punishment's gonna be. "Like I said, dude, I lost track of time. It's a, it's a symptom or whatever." Not like Sam needs Dean to tell  _him_  as much.   
  
"They only go after weak-willed men," Sam says, and Dean blinks, because Sam was  _asleep_  like a minute ago, and now apparently he's Encyclopedia Brown, Supernatural Edition. Talk about fast recovery time, Jesus. "You're not weak-willed, Dean. She shouldn't have come for you. You should have worn a jacket. And she's called Yuki Onna. You shouldn't have waited that long, and you should have worn a jacket." He frowns a little after that, like maybe he just realized he already said that part, and maybe he's not tracking so well after all, and, God, Sam needs to just close his eyes and go back to sleep. He doesn't need to be having this conversation with Dean right now, he doesn't need to be  _admonishing_  Dean right now, because this is the same Sam who fucking panicked on the way back to the motel because he  _told_  Dean something about not using his shirt as a tourniquet, and if Dean thinks about the contrast, and thinks about how Sam's gonna be tomorrow, he has no fucking idea how he'll deal.  _If_ he'll be able to deal.  
  
And he's not gonna think about the weak-willed part, either, about what Sam said about  _that_ , because if he does, Sam will, too; Sam'll see it all over his face, and, yeah, Dean's a coward, but if Sam starts to think about that, he's gonna think it  _through_  and he's gonna come to the rational conclusion the way he always does, and if today ends with Sam looking at him with pity, Sam who survived fucking  _Freak Camp_  looking at him with pity, or with disgust, Sam who is so fucking good, who is the only reason Dean's made it  _this_  long, there's no fucking way he's going to be able to deal with tomorrow. He'll get the room for another night so they won't have to worry about checkout, drink himself to sleep, and hope neither of them remembers a fucking thing by the time they wake up sometime midafternoon.  
  
Except telling himself not to think about it  _is_ thinking about it, and  _fuck_ , Sam, she showed up, okay? The bitch showed up because she was drawn to Dean, because he fit the goddamn profile, and Dad ganked her, and that's how it went, and that kinda disproves Sam's theory, like, utterly and completely burns it to the ground and salts its fucking ashes. And, sure, he's a guy, check the fucking evidence, right, and those demons go after guys, so there's that, but like Sammy said, it's weak-willed ones that really count. It's the weak-willed ones that draw them in. It's not like she went after  _Dad_ , right? She went after Dean, and they both knew she would, that was the fucking plan, that's why Dad suggested it. He knew it would work, he knew she wouldn't go after  _him_ , because John Winchester, whatever else he might be (bastard son-of-a-bitch motherfucking asshole  _Dad_ ), is fucking iron and steel and goddamn immutable, and he knew that Dean wasn't, that Dean isn't, that Dean's fucking  _weak_ , fucking  _agreeable_ , and, sure, being offered up by his own dad as bait kinda sucked, but they'd had worse plans before, and it wasn't like it was a  _bad_  plan, it wasn't like Dean could argue with the logic, and the bitch was  _killing_ people. It wasn't like Dean could just say, gee, no thanks, Dad, think I'm gonna fucking sit this one out and let a few more douchebag college bros get popsicled, so, yeah, he went along with it, 'cause he's not a fucking _sociopath_.   
  
"You should have worn a jacket," Sam says again, the third time, and third time's the fucking charm, right, because this time, he doesn't just sound solemn, he sounds  _sad_. And he  _looks_  sad, though he's not crying (not yet); he looks sad, and  _tired_ , and his grip on Dean's hands tightens fractionally. "Dean."  
  
"Okay," Dean says, because, seriously, what else is he gonna do? Argue with Sammy? Argue with the kid who's got a hole in his arm, who's drugged, who looks so fucking  _lost_ , and who's telling him that he should have had the common sense of a five-year-old?  
  
Though it's not like he  _didn't_. It's not like he was exactly sitting out there in the middle of fucking nowhere, freezing his ass off and having the time of his goddamn  _life_ , but Sam doesn't need to know that, because Sam knows so, _so_  much more about how that feels than Dean ever could, and every single one of those times, Sam did not have a father to drag him to safety, to drag him indoors and finally manage to coax heat from the stove and wrap him up in an army blanket and pour whiskey down his throat until he began shaking and until he stopped shaking, after that. Dean remembers, vaguely, that his face had been wet, and he remembers thinking  _the girl I love, she got long black wavy hair_ , except he hadn't loved her but he had let her kiss him anyway because he had been so fucking cold, colder than he could have ever imagined possible, and he hadn't meant to, he'd only meant to lure her in and then scare her into running the fuck back to whatever icicle crypt she came from, the gun heavy, immobile in his hands; he remembers trying to tell Dad that it was melted snow, remembers slurring something about how he was sorry, and he remembers Dad telling him to get to sleep, they'd talk about it in the morning, and Sam, he never had  _any_  of that. Not even the bad parts, not even the fucking humiliating parts, because of course they talked about it in the morning, Dean and how he was no good to John if he was dead or if he got frostbite and lost an arm, John had assumed he'd have the fucking common sense to put his jacket back on after the bitch showed up, at least, and he couldn't always count on somebody being there, on  _John_  being there, to save his ass.   
  
Sam never had any of that, so, no, Dean's not going to argue with him. Dean's going to nod, and smile, and agree, tell him that he's absolutely right, Dean should have worn a jacket, thank you, Sammy, that's a really good point, man, and he's going to do that, he  _is_ , except then Sam's hands are tight around his and Sam is leaning closer, his body all pressed up against Dean's anyway, but now his mouth almost is, too, now his nose is almost touching Dean's, his pillow-staticky hair brushing up against Dean's forehead. "You could have died," Sam says, and it's hardly more than a whisper, and it's serious as fucking hell, words like a secret, a confession, oh, fuck,  _Sam_. "Dean, don't be mad, okay, but if you died, I don't think I'd be very good at pretending to be a real, I don't think I would be able to, so you have to wear a jacket, okay? Otherwise everyone will know what I am and you won't be able to make it better and you're the only thing that ever makes it better and I love you and you have to wear a jacket next time."  
  
Which absolutely reduces Dean's plan to fucking smithereens, because it's one thing to tell Sammy what he needs to hear in order to be able to go back to sleep and it's something else entirely to say that after Sam basically just said that he needs Dean in order to fucking  _live_  and Dean kind of got that, okay, got the part about how the real world's a mess and Sam needs help navigating it sometimes, but the other thing, that's. That's new. Hearing Sam say it, hearing Sam say it so  _surely_ , and so seriously, and with Sammy so fucking  _close_ to him, Sammy's heart beating so close to his and Sammy's mouth close enough that Dean could kiss him, could kiss him and make him stop thinking about that, could kiss him and make him  _okay_ , except he can't, yet, because he's not sure he can fucking  _move_ , and Sam's hands are still tight around his, like he's trying to keep himself close to Dean or like he's trying to keep Dean  _here_ , or maybe both, and that was never meant to be Sammy's job, never meant to be something Sammy has to think about. Dean's the one who's meant to take care of them, to ground them, make them  _okay_ , and what the fuck does it mean if his kid's the one doing it now, managing despite being broken and just-bleeding and stoned, when Dean's perfectly fucking fine, even goddamn  _sober_?  
  
Jesus, Dean is simultaneously so fucking proud of him and so fucking appalled at  _himself_ , but it's the first thing that matters, it's the first thing that lets him smile after all, even though it seems way too tremulous, a parody of Sammy's own strength, and look into Sammy's eyes, still all huge and intent and fucking  _bright_ , way too bright for somebody who should be passed out, whose eyes should be glazed and glassy and dull, and say, in this voice like Sam's own whisper, but that's not because his voice would sound wrecked if he spoke any louder, it's because Sammy's so close he doesn't need Dean, like,  _yelling_  into his ear, okay, "Okay, Sammy. Okay, I will."  
  
Sam nods, fractionally, head moving a little on the pillow but his eyes never once break contact with Dean's. "Are you mad?" he says in that same small voice, the same one Dean just used, too, and, God, Sam needs to not learn from him, even though Dean was copying  _him_ ; Sam needs to learn from somebody better, Sammy deserves the fucking  _best_ , and  _no_ , Sam, of course he's not mad. Not at you, kiddo. Not at you at all, not  _ever_ , no fucking way.  
  
"Nope," he says, and tightens his own grip on Sam's hand so that they match, so that they're holding on to each other like each other's last fucking hope in the world, and, wow, way the hell to be melodramatic, Winchester, except for how they kind of  _are_ , Sam without Dean would be lost, he knows, and lost in more ways that he could have let himself believe prior to today, ways in which he's still not sure that he  _can_  believe, and Dean without Sam would be absolutely nothing at all. "Never gonna be mad at you, Sammy, I swear. No matter what. You believe me, right?" And maybe that's a shitty thing to ask of Sam right now, maybe it's a fucking shitty thing to do, to ask  _more_  of him right now, any more than he's already given, but it's too late, because Dean already asked and  _one_  of these days, one of these days he's going to learn to fucking think before he speaks, God  _damn_  it.  
  
"Always," Sam says, and, yeah, his voice is still small, still so quiet, but it's also serious, back to being scary-intent and honest, like it's a matter of life and death for him, too, and he blinks at Dean, runs his thumb over the back of Dean's knuckles like he's only just now remembering that he can, motion like he's rediscovering Dean's hand in his. "I always believe you, Dean, you never lie to me. You'll wear a jacket and you'll come back and you'll let me kiss you and someday we'll go to Niagara Falls if I want to and I should think about what I want us to eat and you'll read to me about turtles if I want you to," and,  _fuck_ , that's not what Dean meant, he wasn't exactly looking for a recitation of all of the promises he's made today, because, yeah, they're all true, and yeah, he'll do his best to live up to each of them, to all of them, he'd die trying, but that recitation also sounds scarily like a list of all of the ways he can fuck up, all the ways he can let Sammy down, and, God, Sam's not meant to be memorizing his every word. He's not meant to  _mean_ that much to Sam. Dean memorized  _Dad's_  orders, sure, but not verbatim, and only 'cause they were  _orders_. And these are  _not_  orders. They're, they're fucking  _gifts_ , as much as Dean can possibly give this kid who deserves so much more.  
  
Not to mention the fact that despite being fucking  _stoned_ , Sam is apparently still  _capable_ of memorizing his every word, at least the ones Sam seems to think matter, which is kind of scary. Not bad-scary, just, like, brilliant-scary. Like, how the fuck did he manage to find this kid and why is this kid still hanging around with  _his_  dumb ass scary, except he knows the answers to those, and they are not nice, and if he thinks about them too long, Sam's gonna see it on his face and get sad again, so he doesn't. And if he's glad for the excuse, well, call him a goddamn coward, it wouldn't be anything new. "Yeah, Sammy," he says. "Yeah, that's, that's absolutely right. You got it right, dude. Anything I promise, I swear I'm gonna do my best to make it happen, I'm  _gonna_  make it happen."  
  
Sam licks his lips, and oh, fuck, Dean  _looks_. Which he shouldn't. He absolutely shouldn't, because he knows Sam's dehydrated, knows Sammy's running a fever, and he should think about  _that_ , about making sure his kid's okay, not about Sam's mouth and Sam's tongue and Sam's lips, but the kid kind of tends to have that effect on him, is the thing. "Said I could kiss you any damn time I wanted," Sam says, but he mumbles it a little, and is that the drugs or is that  _fear_ , trepidation, and please, please let it be the drugs. Please let him be falling asleep again, because if the alternative is him starting to, starting to  _revert_ , go back to scared and sad and hesitant, Dean's pretty sure his heart's gonna break all over again and, fuck, the number of times that's happened today, it's not like he should be surprised, but he  _is_ , anyway, because apparently he just cannot fucking  _learn_ , not where it matters.  
  
John said the same thing, once.  _Get it the hell through your head already, boy_ , and Dean swallows. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I did." And  _God_ , Sam's looking at him, looking at him with those depthless eyes like hope and trust, eyes that leave Dean bruised and aching all over, and Sam's face might not be against Dean's neck anymore, but it's not like he's exactly across the room, either, and his body sure as hell  _is_ close; if Dean let go of him, of just one of his hands, he could wrap his arm around Sam's back and pull him on top, or he could get a leg over Sam's hips and that wouldn't require letting go of Sammy's hands at all, it'd just be momentum and  _fuck_ , Sammy's way too close for him to be thinking about that.   
  
"I want to," Sam says, and it's still quiet,  _he's_ still quiet, but he's not mumbling anymore, it's fucking clear, those three words edged distinct as cut glass, those three words like heaven and hell so fucking mixed up that Dean can't even tell them apart anymore.  _I want to_ , and how long has Dean spent trying to get Sam to say that, to say that about  _anything_ , to be able to want and to be able to say that, to look Dean in the eye and  _tell_  him, and, God _damn_  it, why does it have to be now, why does it have to be this, because, fuck, Sam, Dean wants it, too, he wants it so fucking badly that sometimes it seems like he'll die for want of it, and now is  _not_  the time, not when Sam will go along with it, with maybe  _anything_ , not when Sam will let Dean kiss his mouth until they're both breathless, kiss his way down Sam's throat, to the tattoo left bare by the baggy collar of the too-large shirt, and lower; not when Sam will say  _yes_  and mean it with every fucking thing in him, all his ridiculous fragile heart and goddamn beautiful soul, and at the same time  _not_ mean it, because he  _can't_ , now.


	6. Chapter 6

This is Sam, but it isn't real. This is Sam, but not all of him. This is not the Sam Dean will wake up beside tomorrow, either way, and that makes all the fucking difference. "Yeah," he says, because what the hell else is there to say, he's backed himself into a corner with this one, all his fucking planning and  _care_  and  _consideration_ and trying to do what's best for Sammy, and  _fuck_ , this is where it gets him. Exactly where he needs to be to destroy everything, bring them both down to salt and ashes and ruin. "Yeah, dude, okay. We can, we can do that, that's a, a good plan, I'm glad," and Sam  _smiles_ , eyes crinkling and dimples showing and that's Dean's whole goddamn universe right there, that's the reason Dean's made it through twenty years,  _that_  is why he left the motel room that had contained his life up until that point, contained the promise of some kind of future, of somebody in his future, of Da- _John_ ; that's goddamn  _everything_.   
  
 _Sam_  is fucking everything, and he's smiling, and he wants to kiss Dean, he  _wants_  to, he  _said_  so, this goddamn kid, the sweetest, kindest, hottest, most burning-bright thing Dean's ever known, who Dean wants so badly that it fucking  _hurts_  sometimes, and Dean, Dean's gonna let him, because, Jesus, it doesn't have to be more than that. A kiss. That's all. Nothing below the neck. He swears.  
  
He  _swears_.  
  
And then Sammy leans in a little, leans in just enough that his forehead is touching Dean's, and, yeah, the kid's running a fever, not too much, not enough to be bad yet, but it's definitely  _there_ , and he says, "Dean, I'm really glad it happened this way," and what the  _fuck_ , Sam, what the hell, seriously, that cannot mean what Dean thinks it means. It cannot mean that Sam is  _glad_  for this, not like Dean is, cannot mean that Sam's  _glad_  he got himself torn open, let himself get hurt, spent too fucking much time crying because of what Dean said, because Dean's a goddamn moron, and, fuck, Dean made a  _rule_  about that. About Sam not getting hurt. About Sam not  _letting_ himself get hurt, and the last time he fucking checked, the last time he fucking got himself  _reminded_ , rules pretty much defined Sam's world, so, seriously, what the  _hell_? And he wonders what shows on his face, if it looks like accusation, because then Sam is talking again, though he isn't backing away, isn't moving away, and that means he's not scared, right?  
  
Please,  _please_  let that mean that he is not scared, and what the fuck is showing on Dean's face, because Sam's not pulling back, but he's talking again, and that's either gonna break Dean's goddamn heart all over again or -- fuck, either way it's gonna break his heart, it's just that one way it's gonna be for Sammy's sake and another way it's gonna be because he has no idea what to do with something so incredibly fucking amazing and the fact that it's  _Sam_  saying it, saying it to  _him_.  
  
"I'm glad I was there first," Sam says, and Dean's not going to close his eyes, he's  _not_ , even though Sam's looking at him so intently, looking at him like this is maybe the most serious conversation he can ever recall having, and, Jesus, no, Sammy, you fucking fought for your  _life_ , this is nothing, compared to that. Or at least it should be. Fucking  _death matches_ , Christ. "In the camp, and then you took me out," and Sam's hands are tight around his and Dean's are tight around Sam's and they're maybe both gonna be bruised by the time this is over, marks in the shape of each other's fingers, and Dean  _will not look away_. He owes his kid that much. "We got it over with, that way. It would have been worse the other way around, if we'd been together, maybe for years, and then they took me away. It would have been much, much harder. Dean, I wouldn't want to go back, I couldn't, even if I remembered all the things you taught me." He swallows, and licks his lips, and Dean lets himself blink, because that's what people  _do_ , it's not blinking back tears or anything like that. Tears will come later, maybe, when he's not so damn  _numb_ , when he can work through the fact that Sammy apparently cannot comprehend a life that never involved being fucking  _tortured_ , that Sammy cannot imagine a life in which he did not end up behind those fucking walls.   
  
"I don't think it would have helped, any of it. It never helped any of the new monsters," Sam says, so fucking matter-of-factly and at once like it's a confidence, too, like he's letting Dean in on one of the secrets of Freak Camp, something he was never meant to know, and,  _shit_. Dean doesn't want to know. Doesn't want to think about that, all of the brave, scared, defiant kids who got beaten down, broken down,  _murdered_ , because they never had anybody to get them out. Anybody to live for. But Sam had Dean, and Dean's  _nothing_ , but he was enough to live for, and, fuck, that's gonna keep him going one day, he knows it. "But this way the bad part's over and it's only good things, you only show me the things you know'll make me happy, 'cause it's important," and Dean swallows hard, throat full of broken-mirror shards like that one time John barely found the witch ( _you think you can survive on charm and good looks, boy, let's see you try for real_ ) in time to keep him from choking and bleeding out simultaneously, and tries to focus on the part that's thank  _fuck_  that Sam knows that now, remembers as much even now, remembers that it's what he wants that counts (that Dean would die for, and Sammy can never, ever know that part, especially not  _now_ ; Dean fucking cannot deal with the world collapsing in upon itself for the hundredth goddamn time today); it has to mean  _something_ , that even hurt and dazed and drugged, Sam knows that what matters is what makes him happy.   
  
"It's better that I went when I did, when I didn't know anything, so I didn't know what I missed. I think maybe that's how I made it, 'cause I didn't know. Even though you showed me things, you brought me pictures, I couldn't, it wasn't  _real_  yet. Except for you." Sam pauses, then, and his hand is still so fucking tight around Dean's, and he looks nervous for a second, shadow-fragment of his usual self, but only for a moment. A moment, and then it's gone, and, "Everything else's real now too," he says. "I'm not, but everything else is. Everything you promised, everything you told me about. You made it real, just like you said you would, 'cause you always keep your promises."  
  
"Fuck," Dean says,  _breathes_ , before he can stop himself, because motherfucking hell, Sam's the most real thing in his fucking  _world_ , sometimes the only thing in his world, God  _damn_  it, and then he remembers before, remembers what Sammy said about his fingers, that goddamn ridiculous thing, and he lets himself run his own thumb across the back of Sam's knuckles, lets himself loosen his grip enough so that he can run his fingers across the still-too-fucking-prominent bones on the back of Sam's hand, back and forth like the lamest lullaby in the whole damn world.  
  
"But you're not gonna let me go back," Sam says, louder than Dean's expletive, and more confident, and, God, the kid  _smiles_  at him, smiles at him so fucking blissfully that Dean wants nothing more than to kiss him, because, yeah, take a photo and it'll last longer, but, Jesus, kiss him now and Dean'll have this memory  _forever_ ; polaroids burn down to ash but his memories are burned into his goddamn  _brain_. "I remember, Dean, don't worry. You promised, and you always keep your promises," and God  _damn_  it, God  _damn_  it, God  _damn_  it, Dean does not want to think about that promise. The other ones, sure, but that one, that's the one that ends everything, that's the one that ends his beautiful Sammy and takes everything worth living for with it, and he tugs Sam closer, untangles one hand from Sam's so that he can pull Sam's face to his shoulder, feel Sam breathing against the side of his neck, and Sam goes willingly, doesn't tense at all, and thank fucking  _God_ , because Dean wouldn't be able to do this otherwise, wouldn't be able to make him move, and he so fucking does not want Sam to see the look on his face right now, because he's pretty sure it's something horrific, and the kid's practically a mind-reader anyway, no way he wouldn't know exactly what Dean's thinking and twist it the wrong way, take it personally and a bullet in Sam's heart's the same as a bullet in Dean's, both literally and metaphorically, and, Jesus, Sam.  
  
Sam, who is breathing quietly now, and who still has one hand wrapped around Dean's, and whose other hand is settling onto Dean's side, fitting around the curve of Dean's hip, fingers hot against Dean's skin where his t-shirt's ridden up, or maybe where Sam's  _pushed_  it up, and no. No way in hell, because this is  _Sam_. And then Sam's hand slips beneath his t-shirt, thumb brushing against Dean's stomach, and  _fuck_ , his skin is hot, and  _he_ is hot, though maybe not in exactly the same way, and that's something Dean's not going to think about right now, thank you very much, because holy God, Sam's touching him, and it's really not a surprise at this point, or it shouldn't be, but it's  _Sam_  and he's  _touching Dean_ , he's touching him without asking and without looking afraid and without hesitating in the least, and that will never, ever,  _ever_  fucking get old, and there is absolutely nothing Dean is going to let himself do about it right now.  
  
"Hey," he says, though, when Sam's thumbnail scratches across the long-healed knife-wound scar snaking up below his ribs and he shivers involuntarily, breath catching at the blunt edge of Sammy's fingernail and the pressure of his hand and the thought of Sam tracing that scar all the way down, past where it dips below Dean's jeans. And Sam can't possibly have failed to notice his reaction, but Sam's own breathing doesn't change, Sam doesn't look up, doesn't move at all, and that's  _good_. It means he's okay. It also means that this is going to be a hell of a lot harder for Dean, but he's done worse and Sam's been through a hell of a lot worse, so Dean can take this one, he really can. "Hey, Sammy, what're you doing, dude?" Question half-whispered and he hopes to God or whoever that Sam won't hear anything in his voice that's not meant to be there.   
  
"You're still cold," Sam says, more into Dean's neck than actually aloud, but Dean hears him all the same, and tries not to shiver again at the motion of Sam's mouth against his skin, and tries not to tense at it, either, and no way in  _hell_  is Sam not noticing that. "Still cold, Dean. And I'm a monster, and monsters burn hot 'cause they're from hell, so I can warm you up, that's what we're good for. That, and." He stops, and Dean  _feels_  him close his eyes, feels him squeeze his eyes closed tightly like he's trying to shut himself off, keep himself from speaking, or keep himself from seeing something in his head, and Dean knows as good as anybody that that never works.   
  
"Fuck, Sam,  _no_." At that, Sam does tense, and Dean grits his teeth, because on one hand he fucking meant it and on the other, he so fucking did  _not_ , at least not  _this_  part, not the part where it makes Sammy go all scared again. Sam doesn't lift his head, though, doesn't pull away from Dean, and Dean is grateful for that, at least; he doesn't have to look Sam in the eyes just yet, doesn't have to try to make sure whatever's showing on his face won't make things worse, and he lets himself edge one of his knees between Sam's own, lets himself hold Sam a little more tightly, and feels Sam's grip on him shift, too, feels the bones of Sam's hands pressing against his side and against his own hand, and thinks of crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, cables and impossible metal framework, impossible architecture and unyielding strength. Thinks of the water below, and how the sun had glinted across the surface as it did across the hood of the Impala, as though to mask the promise of dark and dreamless things, of endings, and he does not want to know what Sam is thinking, what Sam is trying  _not_ to think, and he doesn't want Sam to know it, either.  
  
 _Said I could kiss you any damn time I wanted_ , Sam had said, and  _I want to,_ and please Jesus fuck let that still be true, because right now, it's all Dean can do, all Dean has to give him, and maybe it's selfish, too, but he hopes with all his fucking useless heart that Sam will know what it means, that it will be okay, that it will be  _enough_ , and he shifts his hand from the back of Sam's neck to the angle of his jaw and tips Sam's head upwards as he leans down, himself, and he hopes that Sam's eyes are still closed.  _Hopes_ , because he cannot make himself look, and he catches a glimpse of Sam's mouth, already slightly open, though maybe that's not in expectation, is only a result of the motion catching him off-guard,  _stop fucking deluding yourself, Winchester_ , and then Sam's mouth is soft against his, and he holds his kid close and tries hard not to think of drowning, tries hard not to think of anything other than  _Sammy_ and  _I love you, I would die for you_  and  _you're not a monster at all, you're the whole goddamn reason I'm still alive._  
  
He cannot keep from making a noise, small as it is, when Sam's tongue slips inside his mouth, but he manages to bring up his other knee, to clamp one of Sam's solidly between his own (and that's not fair, because there's no way Sam can get out of it, Dean outweighs him by  _how_  much, but on the other hand, this is the kid who tackled a werewolf barehanded, and maybe that didn't end well, but it got them  _here_ , and fuck, what kind of asshole thinks of this as being something  _good_ , of this fucking broken survivor of a kid lying here with blood on his face not even an hour ago as something to be  _appreciated_ ), before he can let things get any more out of control. Out of his control, and that's all kinds of screwed up, too, because he's never meant to do this to Sam, never meant to  _control_  him, never meant to do  _any_  of it.  
  
And Sam is kissing him, and he is kissing him back, and it doesn't mean a goddamn thing that Sam kissed him first, before, because he wouldn't have if Dean hadn't gotten him hurt, and that makes this Dean's fault, and that means too that he fucking cannot be letting this happen, and sure as hell can't let this  _escalate_ , because Sam got hurt and he's not -- he's not thinking clearly.  
  
Neither of them is, but Sam's the one this would hurt in the morning. Sam's the one who is holding on to Dean's hip as though it's grounding him, as though elsewise he'd be lost, and Sam is the one who trusts Dean to be good to him, to take care of him  _right_ , and Sam is biting at Dean's lower lip, is sliding his hand through Dean's hair, and he's going to fucking tear his stitches and he's going to hurt himself more and Dean should not be getting  _off_  on this, should not be breathing hard and gripping him back and kissing him like he'd be just as lost without Sam here, like Sam is all that's left in the fucking world, like Sam  _is_  the fucking world, and sure, yeah, it's _true_ , but now is  _not the fucking time_.  
  
"Sam," he says into Sam's mouth,  _against_  Sam's mouth, Sam's name like an invocation or a curse, like a plea, because he knows exactly what it would take to flip him over, to  _ease_  him over, and it would take hardly anything at all, and  _nothing below the neck_ , he reminds himself. There's a goddamn rule about this for a reason, and he  _just_  made a-goddamn-nother one, and it's not just for Sam's benefit, it's for Dean's, too, because there's no way in hell he'd be able to live with himself, much less to live with  _Sam_ , if he were the kind of bastard who'd take advantage of his kid, especially  _now_ , and all Sam wanted was goddamned waffles with strawberries because they remind him of a good day, a day when he was warm, when he didn't have to worry about starving to death or _freezing_ , and Jesus, he should have them already. He should have all the goddamn waffles; Dean'd drive him from coast to fucking coast, stopping at every damn diner they passed until Sam decided to move on to something else, donuts or blueberry pancakes or crepes  _with_  blueberries (not that there's really a difference between those two as far as Dean's concerned, but whatever), if that's what Sammy wanted, and instead Dean's kissing him, Dean's making out with him, and what does it matter that Sammy's kissing him back, that Sammy said he wanted it; Sammy's stoned and hurt and Dean kissed him first this time. And not just out of fucking  _want_ , fucking  _need_ , but out of cowardice, because he was too goddamn scared of what was in his own head, and of what was in Sam's, to do anything else.  
  
" _Sam_ ," he says again, and makes himself open his eyes, makes himself look at Sammy, Sammy with his own eyes still closed and his hair slipping across his forehead again and his cheeks flushed, and  _Christ_ , he wants so fucking badly to guide Sam on to his back, get his legs around Sam's and his hands under Sam's shirt, mouth bruises onto his skin as though he could erase the scars beneath, and he wouldn't have to stop touching him to undo Sam's belt, he could keep one hand on the back of Sam's neck, one hand anchoring them both as he slid down the zipper and worked a hand into Sam's jeans and then it would be skin and salt and Sammy breathing, Sammy maybe saying Dean's name, and Dean could get off on friction alone, friction and Sammy moving below him, and he's meant to be holding Sam  _still_ , keeping this from escalating, not pulling Sam on  _top_ of him, and at that he pulls his head back, yanks himself out of the kiss hard enough that he cracks his head on the headboard. "Mother _fuck_ ," he hisses, lightning burst behind his eyes, but it's not bad, just startling, not in the least what he deserves for what he almost just did to Sam, what he  _did_ to do Sam, because Sam wasn't half-in his lap a minute ago and now he  _is_ , and that's gonna be a problem of its own any fucking second now.  
  
When his vision clears, though, Sam's eyes are open and Sam is looking at him and what did Dean  _expect_ , really.  _Don't move fast around Sammy_ is a rule, too, and  _don't fucking pull away from making out with him like you've just been_  scalded should probably be another one, because holy fuck, Dean's gonna be seeing that expression for fucking  _weeks_.  
  
If he had any thoughts about Sam's defenses being up at  _all_ , about Sam  _having_  any defenses right now, at this moment, in this fucking state of mind, the expression on Sam's face right now pretty much fucking well eradicates them entirely. Dean's a hunter, and a Winchester, and he knows exactly what he's talking about when he says that somebody looks like they've just been gutted, and  _that_  is what he's seeing on his kid's face right now, that is what he just did to Sam, and then Sam takes a long fucking ragged breath, and swallows, and his eyes are so goddamn bright, fucking  _shining_  even in the fading daylight, glassine iridescent hazel-green of storm-seas and shipwrecks, and Dean just made his kid cry. Again.  
  
 _Fuck_ , he thinks, for a second, and then he decides that there really aren't any words for it at all, and then there's no fucking option but to take Sam's face in his hands, to lean in, rest his forehead against Sam's, Sam's hair sticking to Dean's forehead and the sweat on both of them mingling like salt-blood, and just  _breathe_.  
  
In and out. As long as he doesn't talk, as long as he doesn't move (and, Christ, he'd ice his heart, still his lungs, if he could), he can't fuck things up any more than he already has, right?  
  
And as long as he doesn't talk, as long as he doesn't move, he'll be leaving Sammy to deal with this all by himself, leaving him alone  _again_ , even though he promised he never would, not without getting Sammy's permission first, making sure Sam was really and truly okay with it and not just saying he was 'cause he thought that's what Dean wanted to hear. And that means Dean has to talk, now, that means he has to do something, because he left his kid in hell for long enough and even though he knows enough to believe ( _wants_  to be able to believe) that this is nothing like it was before, that this isn't anything compared to what Sammy went through behind the walls of Freak Camp (except how  _can_  he know that, because Sammy won't tell him what happened and he will not ask, for both their sakes, and there are only so many stories that can be written on the skin; there are others that burn deeper, inextricable, unspeakable, and some day maybe Sammy will tell him, and some day maybe Dean will be brave enough to ask), Sammy is hurt, and Sammy is crying, or maybe just on the verge of crying, and there really isn't a  _scale_ where that applies. Sure, he's okay with there being a scale of good, one being Sammy when he can barely meet Dean's eyes and ten having just been redefined today as Sam touching him without question and Sam's smile like cloudbreak and the sunrise burn on the steel of his car and Sam saying aloud all of these scary, secret things Dean only ever allows himself to think when nobody's watching (though he knows by now that Sam is almost always watching, always paying attention, whenever he's awake), but when Sam's hurting, all that goes right out the fucking window and nothing else matters except for making his kid okay, nothing except for fixing whatever the hell it is, setting Sam's world right as much as he fucking possibly can at this stage in the so-called game.  
  
"Hey," he says, and it's not enough (it's never enough), and at the same time it's one of the most terrifying things he has ever said, the way that most things are terrifying when it comes to Sam, because with Sam everything is new and brilliant and tremulous and breakable. "Hey, Sammy, it's okay, I'm sorry, you're fine, I just, I just don't wanna hurt you, is all, dude, okay, I'm not, I'm not going anywhere. Just like you. We're both here, right? And we're both fine." And that's a lie, it's  _such_  a motherfucking lie, but he will not let himself think about what Sam would have said, about whatever else it is he thinks monsters are good for, and he will not make this about anything more than the both of them, right now. Than Sam looking like he's afraid to breathe, afraid to move in the slightest as though that will shatter them both, ruinous watershed moment, and maybe only reflecting Dean, in that.   
  
Sam is still halfway into his lap. Dean takes a deep breath, and does not kid himself about Sam not knowing, about Sam not noticing, and lets himself move his hands from Sam's face down to Sam's back, drawing him closer. Sam's face fits easily once more into the side of his neck and Dean swallows at the saltwater prickle of his eyelashes, wishes so fucking badly he could take this back. Wishes so fucking badly that they could stay like this forever, that it might never get any worse, that all he'd have to do is hold on to his kid, hold him tight like that might keep him safe, hold him tight like that might convince him that he's safe and loved and nothing bad will ever happen to him again, but this is the world, the real world, and he knows better than to try, knows better than to let himself even fucking imagine; hope hurts harder, when it's lost. He's relearned that lesson so many goddamned times now it might as well be branded onto his skin, and  _that_  is a line of thought that he will not follow, because he's seen Sammy's scars and he's seen Sam and he does not want to know what each of the scars meant, if there was a reason, a lesson, a  _rule_.   
  
If they mean anything other than that Sam was locked away for ten goddamn years of his life, locked away and tortured by sadists who did for the sheer fucking joy of hurting a defenseless kid, while Dean had a fucking  _life_ , while Dean went on like none of it was even fucking happening, like hunts and wounds and whatever the fuck happened between him and John, that last goddamn fight, were things worth feeling sorry for himself about, like they warranted a goddamn  _thing_.  
  
"Hey, kiddo," he says. "Hey, Sammy, look, okay, we're good, right? It was just a, I fucked up, I'm sorry, it won't happen again, I ain't gonna let it," which is a shit promise because it happens at least a hundred times a day and he's made that same promise so many times before, but Sam needs to hear it now, needs to be able to believe it if he wants to. And  _Dean_  needs to hear it, too, even though that makes him a fucking moron because he knows exactly how much of a lie it is and he wants to believe it anyway.  _Has_ to believe it, right now, because Sam is a warm and dangerous weight across his body, skin hot beneath the thin cotton of his shirt and beneath Dean's palms and bones too sharp still; the careless casual sprawl of his legs, and his arms, even the one he shouldn't be moving, resting tentatively now around Dean's own back, and the silk-rasp tangle of his hair scratching at Dean's chin, catching on the stubble of Dean's jaw, are each and all their own fucking gorgeous thorn-twisted road to hell. Dean bites his lip against the knowledge and against the pyromaniac urge to say  _fuck it all_ anyway and go for it, like his foot on the gas and the answering promise of his girl's engine, the way he knows,  _knows_ that Sam would respond, would smile and let Dean lay him open, lay him bare, let him touch and kiss and slip over and under, leave sweet bruises to ache the next morning, to haunt them both the way the remembrance of the bittersweet autumn-crisp of Sam's eyes haunts Dean now.   
  
And Sam would sleep, at last, for the night or what was left of it, would curl contented and beatific and  _safe_ against him, and Dean would stay awake to listen to him breathe and sleep untroubled, and in the morning the shadows beneath Dean's eyes and the weight on his shoulders would be the crumpled denim on the floor, the wrinkled tossed-aside t-shirts, the boxers caught up in the sheets and the sweat dried across his skin and the matched set of their kiss-bitten mouths, and Sam would  _know_ , and Sam would want to shrink away,  _would_ shrink away, just as he always does, and Sam would forgive him anyway, because Sam  _does not expect anything more_ , and that would make it easy, and that would make it the most unforgivable of all sins, maybe the only sin Dean believes in and that he has yet to commit.  
  
He bites his lip almost hard enough to draw blood, because Sam's not looking, Sam won't see, and then Sam pulls back of his own accord, Sam  _moves_ , Sam looks up at him and Dean makes himself stop, feels his whole body tense with the effort of trying to remain calm, and isn't  _that_  a joke.  
  
"You're not mad," Sam says, half-wonderingly and half-questioningly, his voice quiet enough that Dean can't hear any tears in it, can't hear any roughness or hesitation. "You're not cold anymore."  
  
"Nope," Dean says. His own voice is unexpectedly steady enough that for a second, he doesn't recognize it. "No, you warmed me up, right? Just like you said you would. You're fuckin' amazing, Sammy. Always taking care of me and shit, right? Don't know what I'd do without you," and it's a reminder, it's full of warning,  _do this and you'll lose him_ , but that's for Dean alone, and Sam doesn't hear it. Instead, Sam almost  _smiles_ , and blushes, color like sunset rising across the angled planes of his face, vivid even over the lowgrade flush of small fever.  
  
"I'm your monster," he says, sounding almost happy, and Dean will take that. Hell fucking yes, Dean will take that. It's not right, because Sam is not a monster and Sam is not  _his_ , Sam is his own goddamn person and Dean does not  _own_  him; he is not Dean's to hold forever, to break into beautiful breathless agony and put back together again with the slow pressure of his tongue or his hands or his cock. He  _isn't_ , but he sounds better than he has, and he is no longer crying, and if that's what it takes, if  _this_ is what it takes, Dean will go with it. For Sammy's sake.  
  
No matter how much it kills him to agree.  
  
"You're my Sam," Dean says, and it isn't quite agreement, but Sam nods anyway, and then blinks as though dizzied, leans forward to rest his forehead against Dean's shoulder, and Sam with initiative is the fucking hottest thing Dean has ever seen, Jesus Christ.  
  
"Waffles," he says, muffled by Dean's shirt, by Dean's body, and Dean swallows hard. "Dean, we were going to have waffles, you said, did I forget?"  
  
"No, dude, absolutely, we're gonna have waffles. A fuckton of waffles. As many goddamn waffles as you want, I swear to God. Every waffle they got in this, wherever the hell we are, you want 'em, we'll get 'em. Strawberries, too," and what the hell is he even  _saying_ , Jesus fuck, John would laugh and John would be appalled and John would disown him, but that already happened and anyway, none of it matters in the face of the way Sam's shoulders are tightening, shaking a little, and it's fucking  _laughter_. Sam is fucking  _laughing_ , and Dean would do motherfucking  _anything_ , would  _say_ motherfucking anything, to get that to happen, and to keep happening.  
  
"Corinth," Sam says, and leans back into Dean's arms, just enough to be able to speak clearly, to speak without mumbling, even though his words run together at the edges, begin to trail off at the ends. "Corinth. 'cause there was a wolf. Norse. Dean, the legend, remember, about the wolves and you said you didn't know what the fuck one a' the wolves would be doing in Vermont, and I said it was killing people because it was a monster and that's what they do, and you got that look on your face like you do sometimes and I said I was sorry and you hugged me like now except not and asked if I thought maybe it dressed up like Grandma to catch a flight from fuckin' Scandinavia and that was a reference to a fairy tale, I knew it, and you were proud of me and then we made a plan…"  
  
 _They_.  
  
Sam is looking up at him, and Sam is smiling, and Sam is waiting for something, is waiting for him to respond, to tell him yes and he will be proud always, he's always fucking proud of Sammy, every goddamn day, and in a second, he will do that, he will say that and he will kiss Sammy for as long as he'll let himself, which might not be any longer than an instant, but right now, right  _now_ , he cannot move, because Sam said  _they._  
  
It was a monster, and that's what  _they_  do.  
  
They. Not  _we_. Not  _we_ , like he said the first time, when Dean winced because he couldn't help it and Sam noticed and Sam fucking  _apologized_  like it was his fault he'd been fucking tortured and broken and made to fucking believe he's anything like those goddamn things out there in the dark, all raggedy nails and bloody mouths and families torn to shreds. (He had shut down so  _fast_ , then; just a second before, he'd given Dean a straight answer to a question that Dean would've loved to see him respond to with an eye-roll or a sigh or  _both_  -- or better yet, even, a kick in the ankle, that would've been  _awesome_  -- and then he hit that part of the answer and mother _fuck_ , Sammy, no, no way in hell -- monsters, yes,  _you_ , no -- and Dean's such a goddamn dickbag for making that happen, his kid's face instantly pale, his kid swallowing hard, lips parting for a second before he ducked his head and when he raised it a second later he was composed as goddamned death and his hands twisted together. Dean let himself reach over -- it wasn't hard, that part, since he'd had his chair angled towards his kid already, angled to half-face his kid, ostensibly so that they could better show each other anything they found, but maybe-also-mostly so that he could glance at Sam when Sam wasn't looking, 'cause the way his kid bites his lip when he's reading, the way he lets himself get so wrapped up in whatever he's reading that it looks like peace, is one of the best things in Dean's life -- and cover Sam's with his own, and Sam's fell loose instantly despite being dead-of-winter cold, and maybe it was only because he thought it was what Dean wanted, thought doing anything else would come across like  _resisting_ , but maybe not, and the latter's what Dean chose to believe, wrapping his own hands around Sam's, palms covering Sam's knuckles, fingers sliding between Sam's own to rest against the callused faded-scar skin of Sam's own palms, holding Sam the only way he could, holding  _them_ , holding them together, until Sam swallowed audibly, bangs half-fallen across his eyes when he looked at Dean, and up until then he hadn't stuttered all  _day_ \--)  
  
Holy  _fuck_ , Sammy, and without warning he is grinning hard and bright and so much that it  _aches_ , and his arms are tight around his kid, pulling him close, and Sam is letting out a breath and relaxing against his chest and motherfucking Christ, Sammy, that was goddamn miraculous, you have  _no fucking idea_ , holy shit.


End file.
